#Indigent Press

[thisismyanimus]

it seemed that searching three words allows you to find all posts containing those three words

with two words, it seemed that both words have to be in tags, or else it doesn't work. maybe unless the post is popular

but what if i write a really long tag? the maximum limit is 139 characters per tag

i did this experiment in this post

i concluded that if your search contains common words, for example "what write really", it only retrieves certain posts where those words are in the text

for uncommon/nonexisting words in the text of your post such as "brasput yabet mituarb", you can find your post by searching just 1 word

for two words in any of the tags, it retrieves the post, even if the words are common. for example "eat above"

[kaciidubs]

Are You Still Watching?

✧ Summary: It was meant to be a sweet gesture to treat you to a surprise at-home date - what a shame that the pajamas that were supposed to be covering your bodies were now on the floor. ✧  ✧ Word Count: 1.8k ✧ Warnings: Smut, fluff, light humor, slight Dom/Sub dynamics, daddy kink, spitroasting, slight choking ✧  ✧ Female! Reader [No use of Y/N] | You/Your pronouns ✧  ✧ Additional Tags: Reader is referred to as Good Girl, Baby, Pup, Slut, Seungmin is referred to as Minnie, Chris is referred to as Daddy, Baby ✧ Stray Kids Masterlist ✧ General Masterlist

You’d appreciated the effort they put in on the surprise date night; the living room decorated with small tea light candles as the coffee table held an array of your combined favorite snacks. They’d even treated you to your favorite restaurant for take out - and by they, you really meant Chris, seeing as he would rather be struck by lightning than have you or Seungmin pay for anything (though, recently, he has been getting better at letting you both exercise your independence).

However, your favorite detail of the whole night was the way they basically transformed the couch into a sea of blankets and pillows - Seungmin making sure to include your favorite fluffy blanket to be shared between the three of you - which only made it more shameful to note that it was currently crumpled on the floor with pajamas that should’ve been covering your bodies.

“C’mon, you can take more than that, can’t you?”

You made a sound of indigence, eyebrows pinching as the pressure on the back of your head increased just a bit.

“Minnie, don’t - ah, fuck - don’t force her, give her a second.”

As usual, Chris’s caring tone added a lighter caress to Seungmin’s bite, though those sweet words could only do so much as his hips twitched up, unintentionally pushing more of his length past your lips.

Seungmin scoffed, a humored, lighthearted sound as his eyes narrowed, “You do realize, she’s the one who told me I could do this, right? She likes it, you know she does - don’t act like you don’t like it either, hyung.”

Punctuating his point, he pressed further against the back of your head and you dropped your jaw to allow Chris’s cock to slide along your tongue and prod at the back of your throat, before letting his grip pull you back up for a little reprieve.

“Bub wants to be used like a little slut - are you going to deny her that?”

You keened at his words, flicking your tongue around the head of Chris’s cock for further coaxing - you were okay with it, more than okay, and seeing your enthusiasm served to whittle him down more.

“G-Gonna be a good girl f’me and take it?”

Your head shifted slightly, a nod, as much as you could give with Seungmin’s hold on you remaining firm and secure.

That was all he needed to see as he spread his legs just a bit more, planting his feet before thrusting his hips up; his dick easily finding its way down your throat from the way Seungmin kept your head at the perfect level.

The living room soon filled with the sounds of your choked moans, wet slurps, and breathless groans as Chris fucked your mouth with ease; one arm laid along the back of the couch while the other braced against the cushions to aid in the leverage he needed.

“God, fuck, look at you,” he hissed, cocking his head in order to catch the way your cheek puffed up and hollowed out with each stroke, the shine of saliva bubbling at the corner of your lips sending his mind into a frenzy. “Pretty little thing letting daddy use your mouth like this - wouldn’t have it any other way, hm?”

Replying in kind, you dipped your head lower, working past the resulting gag on the following thrust with nothing but pure determination and need.

“Fuck.” Both men spoke in unison, a sound filled with equal parts desperation and fascination.

The sloppy sounds of Chris’s cock leaving and entering your mouth bounced off the walls of the living room more frequently, his pace growing faster as he began to chase the hints of his impending orgasm.

“‘M gonna come soon,” he gasped out, lidded eyes trained on the way your head rocked and bobbed, but stayed relatively in the same position Seungmin held you in, “be good and swallow it all, okay, baby? J-Just a little longer- shit.”

You tightened your lips around his girth, determined to hold everything he gave you, and like clockwork his dick twitched against your tongue followed by the bitterness of his seed filling your mouth.

He came with staggered breaths, his stomach heaving with each wave that coursed through him until his body fell lax against the couch.

The grip on the back of your head vanished, though another presence made itself known underneath your chin, slowly pulling you away from the softening cock between your lips - Chris hissing from the determined suction you kept to take the remnants of his orgasm with you.

Turning your head towards him, your eyes met his lust fogged ones, pupils blown and a considerable glow emanating from his body.

“Show daddy.”

He watched as the muscles in your throat subtly shifted before you parted your lips, tongue lolling out to show the inside of your mouth void of his cum.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing his thumb against your tongue.

Your lips eagerly wrapped around the digit, holding his strong gaze as you sucked on it daringly - priding yourself on the way his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing at your boldness.

However, your little show was cut short as you felt a pair of hands dragging you back by your hips, blindly following the lead as your legs were guided up and over the arm of the couch, planting your feet firmly on the hardwood while your hips rested against the cushioned arm.

“Alright, alright, I’m here too.” Seungmin mumbled, though his cadence expressed a playful annoyance than anything else as he ran his hands along the curve of your ass, “Channie hyung shouldn’t have all the fun - this was my idea.”

There wasn’t enough time to counteract with a statement of your own as you felt the blunt tip of his cock nudge against your pussy, sliding through your arousal with a gentle rock of his hips.

“Seungmin, please.”

He gave a light huff, but you could practically see the amused smirk undoubtedly on his lips, “So needy, pup.”

However, you could argue that he was needier as he gripped your hip tighter, his other hand supporting the base of his dick as he began to slowly push past your walls - a hiss of satisfaction falling from his lips in the process.

Your head fell forward, a low moan floating through your parted lips; though, it didn’t last long as a finger hooked underneath your chin and gently lifted your head back up.

“Feels good, doesn’t he, baby?”

Lust fogged eyes locked with darkened ones, a familiar hunger lingering in his irises that had your pussy clenching as a result.

You felt yourself getting lost in his hypnotizing stare, sinking deeper and deeper into the pool of desire until a thrust jolted you forward - breaking you from your reverie with a choked out moan.

Then came another, then another, then another, until you were steadily rocking against the arm of the couch as Seungmin fucked you as he pleased; hard and thorough with a hand gripping your hip while the other remained steady at the back of your neck.

“Jesus, she’s so wet,” he groaned, lidded eyes locked on the curve of your ass, “bet she’s been turned on since we started this whole ‘date’.”

“Yeah? You think so?” A low chuckle left Chris as he took in your lust fogged expression, “She’s probably been waiting for one of us to put our hands on her ever since we got to the couch, spoiled little thing.”

A slap rang through the air, your yelp of pain melting into a needy whine while Seungmin’s hand massaged the cheek of your ass.

“Needy little slut,” squeezing the flesh, he hummed, “it’s cute, though - probably means we’re doing something right.”

Your breath caught at their words, an addictive mix of embarrassment and arousal flowing through your veins like molten lava - stomach twisting and walls clenching that only served to intensify Seungmin’s precise thrusts.

“Oh, she liked that.” His hand slid around your hip and between your legs, a deft finger easily finding purchase on your neglected clit, “Did you like it enough to come for me, pup? I can feel you clenching, I know you’re close - come for me.”

A larger hand made its presence known around your neck with a firm grasp, not enough to cut off your airflow, yet still present enough to have your eyelids fluttering and lips parting in a small ‘o’.

“Go ahead,” Chris cooed in a velvety tone, gently squeezing his fingers against the column of your neck, “come for Minnie, baby - come so he can fill you up just how you like, yeah?”

The mere thought of his orgasm had yours slamming into you faster than you could comprehend - your legs nearly buckling as you gripped the couch cushion, while a staccato of moans floated past your lips.

“Seung- Baby- A-Ah- Fuck!”

Seungmin mirrored your curse with one of his own, forced through gritted teeth as his finger continued to slide against your clit, drawing out your orgasm as long as he could until his body tensed - grunting out a small “‘M c-coming-” before pressing his hips flush to yours.

Chris’s hand slowly left your neck, granting you the ability to let it fall forward and relieve some tension off your shoulders; the sound of heavy footsteps walking out of the living room keying you into what he set off to do next.

A pair of lips pressed to your shoulder blade, followed by another kiss to the junction near the base of your neck, leading you to let out a soft giggle.

“I’m okay, Minnie.”

“Even after what I said…?”

His voice was right next to your ear, soft and a tad meek - you couldn’t help but nudge the side of his head with your own, “Baby, you calling me a slut barely breaks the surface of what I can get Channie to call me if I push hard enough - I’m perfectly fine with being your ‘needy slut’ if that’s what you need in the moment.”

He made a sound that could only be described as bashful embarrassment, choosing to respond by leaning forward to peck your cheek before pulling away at the sound of footsteps once more.

After a quick - gentle and careful - wipe down with a washcloth provided by Chris, a few bathroom trips, and a refresh on snacks, the three of you settled back onto the couch like before - sans pajamas.

“So,” Chris hummed, rotating the remote in his hand, “are we still watching this, or…?”

You held back your laugh as best you could with Seungmin laid on top of you, eyes already closed and determined to stay that way. “Keep it on as background noise?”

Nodding, he selected ‘keep watching’ before tossing the remote to the coffee table and tugging you closer against his side.

✧. ┊Tagged lovelies: @having-an-internal-crisis-rn, @midnightfrog625, @anyhow-everything, @bangchanbabygirlx, @sweetracha, @nightimescapes, @caitlyn98s, @ch4nn13luv, @ihrtlix, @jeonjungkookenthusiast1997, @maximumkillshot, @y-ur--i, @acker-night, @dreamescapeswriting, @specialstay, @s00buwu, @tinyelfperson, @jj-stay, @katsukis1wife, @inlovewithmusician, @keen-li, @armystay89, @main-character0, @vampcharxter, @ddyskz, @prettymiye0n, @bbgnyx, @bahng-chrizz, @milknhoneyracha, @hann1bee, @palindrome969, @newhope8, @kpopsstuffs, @starquokka, @wolfs-howling, @laylasbunbunny, @4-chan-inpadella, @butterflydemons, @kimahreummm, @ta3baee, @snowy-violet, @bethanysnow

✧. ┊If your username is in bold italics that means tumblr won't let me tag you. If you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form!

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I wanted to ask if I can request Lucifer x sick wife reader? I just woke up with a really bad fever, sore throat, and incredibly stuffy nose. Maybe Edna could help Lucifer make soup?

A/n: I HOPE YOU FEEL BETTER

"You're burning up!" Pressing the back of his hand to your head, Lucifer frowned sliding out of the bed as he quickly slipped out of the bed stepping away from you. "Stay in bed!"

Coughing into your hand, you fell back against the pillow as your eyes slipped closed. A ragged cough escaping your lips. Everything hurt, your body felt like lead, your throat was raw, you hated this. "What about Edna?"

Quickly pulling the blankets up to your chin, he brushed a strand of your hair away he placed a kiss to the top of your head then stepped away. "I can look after here! Today is all about you and getting you better!"

Before you had a chance to respond, Lucifer darted out of the room then into the kitchen. Nervously biting his nail. He knew he had to do something, he hated seeing you this sick. "You will feel better my love!"

"Daddy!" Rushing over to her father, Edna grasped the leg of his pants.

Scooping his daughter up, Lucifer nuzzled his cheek against his daughters as she let out an excited squeal as she wiggled in his arms. "Daddy stoop!"

Hummer, Lucifer smiled as he adjusted the little girl in his arms. "Want to help me make mommy some soup to help her feel better?"

"Yes!!"

"Marvolus!"

Still holding her, Lucifer grabbed the remaining ingredients then started to get to work allowing her to dump the indigents in the pot and once he was satisfied with the soup being done he ruffled his daughters hair smiling."let's go make mommy feel better."

"Yeah!" Edna clapped her hands together as she then rushed off to the room where you were sleeping.

"B...be careful!"

Doing his best to balance the bowl of soup, Lucifer hummed though his eyes went wide as he sat down on the edge of the bed seeing you sitting up. "Well since you're up...I made you something to eat."

Giving him a weak smile you were about to take the spoon from his hand as Edna snuggled into your side only to see a spoon in front of your face. "Really?"

"Really?" Lucifer hummed giving you a smile. "Now eat up! Me and Edna made it special just for you."

"Well how can I turn that down." Opening your mouth, you sighed taking a bite of the food. Though it might seem silly, you could taste the love. "Thank you."

Leaning forward, Lucifer gave you a smile as he placed a kiss to your head. "You never have to thank me love, just get better."

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 11 - The Wolves or The Ocean Rocks

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This Chapter of No Love Lost is brought to you by blatant Jennifer’s Body propaganda, Too Much Plot™, acidditties infinite patience, and readers like you. Thank you. Chapter Title from Guilty As Sin? By Taylor Swift.

Word Count: 18.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: A new plan is made, and the team takes a trip to Staten Island. Usual warnings

Read on A03!

Chapter 10 - Chapter 12

You’re up against the wall. You weren’t sure how you got there—it was all a blur of teasing and mock fighting and getting just a little too close together—but you knew something had snapped. One of you had started this, this furious kiss that might be like a drug, that might ruin every other kiss you’ve had, will have. You think you’ll blame Ben later because he has no actual proof it was you that moved first and you can talk circles around that man for days. Most of the time. Right now you’re not sure if you know any words expect Ben and fuck and please.

Ben’s standing over you, his arms caging you between his body and the wall. Your hands are tangled in his hair, pulling him down to you so that this never ends. One of his hands has dropped to your waist, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re off the wall, pressed against Ben’s chest and wrapping an arm around his neck to stay steady.

His arm wraps fully around your body, the other hand leaving the wall to tangle in your hair, raising you slightly off the ground. You moan, and suddenly the arm around your waist drops to right below your ass, lifting you completely before all but slamming you back into the wall with a groan.

“Ben,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around him as his teeth pull at your lip. “Fuck, please-“

 He chuckles, leaning back slightly. “You want me to fuck you, Sunshine?”

You whine, trying to return his mouth from where it’s torturing you—just a breath away—to where it belongs. Against yours, forever. Things like talking can be secondary, because this can never stop. “Ben, please-“

“Words,” He teases, and when he says your name it vibrates through his chest, through your blood. “I know you know how to use them.”

“Fuck,” you gasp, still trying to pull him back forwards. “Please.”

“I’ve never seen you speechless before. If this is all it took I’d have kissed you months ago.”

“Ben-“

“Words.”

Your indigence manages to push through your desperation. “That is a word, fuck-“ you hiss, because Ben’s pushed his knee up to rest between your thighs. “It’s a proper noun.”

His head drops to your neck, kissing bruises that vanish in seconds. “Can’t stand being wrong, can we?”

“Wasn’t wrong, you-“ Your head can’t fall further back, so he’s moving up, up. Kissing at your ear, your cheek, your forehead and nose and everywhere else but your mouth. “Fuck, Ben.”

“That’s what you want?” He teases. “Say it.” 

You’re past dignity. “Please fuck me, Ben. You absolute cu-“

He cuts you off, kissing you long and heavy until there's no breath in your lungs to keep going.

“Bed?” He grunts, and you nod frantically.

You blink, and suddenly you’re on your back, still between Ben, still resting your legs on his hips, but the surface behind you is now soft. The bed is already squeaking slightly as Ben kisses you into the mattress, and you don’t realize that you’ve started to grind against him until he pulls back with a groan. 

“Fucking quit that, or you won’t get what you want,” Ben snaps, and you can feel him, long and hard against your leg. You test your luck, pushing up into him one more time, making him moan against your ear.

“Plea-“

The word isn’t fully out of your mouth before Ben’s pulling away from you, weight moving off your body and making you push up on your elbows to try and bring him back. You barely have a chance to see him kneeling at the edge of bed—your lower body having somehow gotten exposed along the way—before you fall back with a strangled gasp as his mouth finds your pussy.

His beard is scraping at your inner thighs, his tongue is pushing inside you, his nose keeps brushing against your clit, and one large hand is managing to hold you still as you try to buck off the bed.

“Fuck, Ben, please-“ you moan and he growls against you, moving faster-

A snore tore through the air, yanking you from the hands of sleep in an instant. Still in bed, still on your back, and, torturously, still pinned down by Ben, who was all but passed out above you. 

You were starting to lose your mind. Over the past week, Ben had solidified his habit of pulling you under him in the night, tangling your legs together and pushing his head into your shoulder as his arms covered your chest. It would’ve been sweet if—over the past week—you hadn’t been waking up every morning with an ache between your legs, covered in sweat and filled with an insatiable need for the very man sleeping above you.

You never moved. You couldn’t move. Ben looked so peaceful when he slept, and it made the Feeling warm and easy. His voice would roll through your body as he grumbled incoherently under his breath, his face would bury into you as he held you tightly, and you just weren’t cruel enough—to Ben or yourself—to wake him. You always waited until he let out the low sound that signaled he was leaving sleep, and then you’d start whispering his name, pushing at his arm slightly until Ben woke himself.

The pitfall to this plan was that you’d be trapped under Ben—horny and still half asleep—trying to fight yourself from doing something really, really stupid. Like kissing his pouting lips that looked really soft, or tracing his sharp jaw from his chin to his hair, or pulling him further into you just to be closer, feel his warmth and strength as he breathed against you. This was not a plausible long term way to exist. It was starting to become distracting, how much you wanted him. Yesterday morning he’d reached over you in the kitchen and you set the orange in your hand on fire. You’d somehow managed to play it off as being startled, but all you could think about for the rest of the day was Ben’s body and how it had pressed against yours in that split second. The thoughts followed you into your dreams, and the current position you were in wasn’t doing you any favors.

Time began to move in a cruelly slow passage. You might have been held under Ben for days or mere minutes, but it felt the same. He was right there, touching you so casually, and you couldn’t do anything about it. It had clicked, when you’d woken up from a safe and peaceful sleep last week, that the Feeling didn’t feel inseparable from your own self anymore. It was Ben. Your… attachment and care and ease with him. You were an adult, and you could admit that maybe it was just Ben. That you wanted him matching you step-for-step, holding you peacefully, and fighting that consuming thirst for just him, him, him forever.

And you knew where the catalyst lay, in that very thought. That was too much. It was more than infatuation, it was something deeper you didn’t really have a word for. And you knew that Ben wasn’t capable of that feeling that now sat under your skin with the fire. He didn’t want it—not with you—and you don’t blame him. But you don’t think you could do anything else, anything that wasn’t everything. You were an adult, a grown woman who had a PhD and was perfectly capable of living with the man she liked not liking her back. It would fade, or pass, or change back into something neutral and platonic. And if it kept growing and growing to affection and fervor and desire and undying-

You��d live. You’d find a way to live.

When Ben finally started to move, that low sound from his chest rolling through yours, it felt like mercy. You might have exploded—burst into a million pieces of want and desperation—if he hadn’t.

“Ben,” you whisper, tapping his arm where it holds you. “Wake up.”

His response is a low, muffled grumble. “No.”

“It’s noon.”

“So?”

“I’m hungry.”

 “Go fucking eat, then.”

You sigh. “I can’t, not until you move.”

“Tough shit.” Ben doesn’t move, if anything he might be holding you tighter.

“Please,” you poke his shoulder. “I need to shower.”

 “That’s not my fucking problem.” His words are becoming more firm—less slurred with sleep—and you can feel the tight content sitting in his chest. “You should’ve showered last night.”

“All the hot water was gone,” you frown at the ceiling, poking him again. “Because someone took their sweet fucking time.”

“You could’ve just used the damn guest bathroom.”

“You could’ve just used the guest bathroom. It’s not my shower that’s broken.” You almost jump when you look down at him, finding his eyes open and watching you with a heavy look. Your words stumble a little, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ve told you I can just call Mallory-“

“I don’t need the CIA in my shit any more then they already fucking are,” Ben mutters. “It’s not worth it.”

“Easy to say when you’re the one who gets to take hour long showers in my bathroom-“

“Our bathroom, Sunshine.”

You snort. “Our bathroom? Seriously?”

“It’s my bedroom too now, my fucking bathroom as well.” He sits up slightly when you giggle again, “what’s so fucking funny-“

“Nothing,” you shrug.

“Liar.” Ben’s propped up on an elbow, slightly over your body as he glares down at you. It’s not doing you any favors. “You have that shit-eating grin when you get to teach me something fucking dumb. What.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m not a sensitive pussy, I can fucking handle-“

“Communism, Ben. I’m laughing because ‘our’ is a communist sentiment.”

You feel irritation strain against him, but there’s no drums, no fury. “I ain’t no fucking commu-“

 “I know. That’s the joke.” Still on your back, you stick your tongue out at him. “Jokes are funnier when you explain them, you know.”

Ben drops back to his side of the mattress, and you mourn the loss of his warmth. “Just for that shit, I’m not cooking tonight.”

“It’s my night anyways, dumbass.”

“And you’ll be blowing up the kitchen alone.”

You roll your eyes. “A girl blows up the kitchen one fucking time, and suddenly it’s all she’s ever done.”

“Twice,” Ben’s smirking when you look at him. “Pizza.”

He’s right. Five nights ago you’d tried to bake a pizza by hand, and destroyed the counter and several cabinets. And he knows he’s right, because he’s already got the cocky told you so look in his eyes, the one that appears when he wins an argument.

“Shut up,” you mumble, climbing out of the bed as Ben laughs behind you. “It’s not my fault pizza is so easily flammable.”

Ben sits up against the headboard, and you can feel him watching you move around the room. “I think you’d find a way to make stone ‘flammable’.”

“Everything in the world is flammable, Ben. That’s how melting temperatures work.” 

“Fuck off, brat.”

You flip him off, moving to the bathroom and closing the door with a lock.

Ben had, in a remarkably short amount of time, made himself at home in your space. His razor was near the sink, shampoo next to yours in the shower, and his shield was—for reasons you still didn’t fully understand—sitting against the wall.

“Why does it have to be in the bathroom?” You’d asked, and he’d scoffed as if it were an insane question.

“Because.”

“That clears absolutely nothing up.”

“Don’t fucking worry about it.”

You’d frowned, following him into his own bathroom for the last of his items. “See, I wasn’t worried, but now I am. This is a big house, there’s definitely space-“

“I want it close.” He’d grunted, stepping into the shower for toiletries. “That’s it.”

“Close to where you shit?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He’d turned back to you, arms full. “This is everything.”

You’d looked around the room. “What about your toothbrush?”

“I don’t brush my teeth.” He’d pushed past you, and you’d followed his long strides back down the hall, gaping at his back.

“You don’t brush your teeth? For what possible fucking reason?”

“Don’t need to. Waste of fucking time.” Ben had glanced down at you, expression almost confused. “You don’t need to do that shit either, now. You have a better healing factor than I do.” 

You’d blinked. “It’s a good habit.”

“Whatever,” he’d shrugged. “Not my damn time you’re wasting.”

After that conversation, you’d bought him a toothbrush. It was still sitting—bristle and dry—next yours, but it made all of it, made Ben, feel more concrete. Like some form of evidence that you were sharing a room, and he wasn’t sick of you yet. That he’d forgiven you enough to only roll his eyes when you suggested he use it.

He’d forgiven you. By some miracle, he’d completely and totally forgiven you. You’d played it all in your head a million times, trying to see if there had been a break in his words, a falter in what you’d felt from him, any sort of evidence that he was lying. But he wasn’t. You’d watch him bend a knife in half because it “wasn’t working properly” or make snarky comments at the show you’d be watching, and all you could feel from him when you grabbed his hands or your legs brushed together was ease. His words, his offer, looped and looped in your brain, and began to carve a groove.

Do you seriously fucking believe that Homelander would take you and I wouldn’t fucking burn everything to get you away from him.

You can always fucking be around me.

I trust you. I give a shit about you.

You picked the words apart. Trying to find a divot or crack to show that Ben was lying, that you needed to have doubt and tread carefully.

To get you away from him.

Away from Homelander. Not back to Ben, away from Homelander.

You can always fucking be around me.

Always.

I trust you. I give a shit about you.

He’d forgiven you. Fully, completely. And you didn’t know what that meant.

I give a shit about you.

You’d expected him to be gone from the bedroom when you finished your shower, so you changed slowly in the lingering, humid steam. But you open the door to the bedroom and find him exactly where you’d left him, looking bored and sullen.

“Who takes long fucking showers now?” He mutters under his breath, and you blink at him.

“I thought you’d just go downstairs,” you say blankly, trying to read his face. “If I’d known you were waiting-“

“I wasn’t waiting.” Ben snaps, standing in one quick, abrupt movement. “I needed to shit.”

He pushes past you, into the bathroom, and you call as he closes the door, “there are like, four other bathrooms!”

You hear his shouted response through the door. “Shut the fuck up!”

Taking a step to the hall, you hesitate, glancing back at the bathroom door. “Is it a long shit?!”

There’s a pause, and then, “What?!”

“I’m going downstairs! If it’s not a long shit, I can wait-”

“I can shit by my goddamn self.” You can almost see his frown through the door. “I don’t need fucking help.”

“I wasn’t offering help, you asshole, I was offering to wait. So we can go downstairs together.” It sounds stupid as you say it, but you can’t bring yourself to take it back. 

There’s another second of silence, then a gruff, “Fine.”

You hum, glad Ben can’t see the heat on your face, and drop back onto the bed. You expect to wait a few minutes at least, but the toilet flushes almost immediately and Ben pulls the door open with a grunt.

“I’m hungry.” He snaps, and you stand off the bed with a shrug.

“Join the club.”

“Fuck off.”

You laugh to yourself, following him down the stairs. “Thoughts on dumplings?”

“What?”

“For lunch. I saw a recipe in the book yesterday.”

He makes a tight face at you from the bottom of the steps. “I don’t fucking want oriental food.”

“Jesus Christ, Ben.” You sigh, shaking your head as you move a pace ahead.

“What? The fuck is wrong with-“

You stop at the counter, turning back to face him. “Do you still have my racist grandpa list?” You ask, half joking with your brows raised.

He stills in the doorway, and you could swear he’s almost blushing. “Yes.”

“Oh,” you blink, having expected it to find its way to the trash weeks ago. Shaking your head slightly, you say, “Add ‘oriental’ to it.”

“It’s upstairs. I’m not going all the fucking way back upstairs just for a stupid damn list.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to actually use your brain for once,” you walk to where the cookbook—a few pages burnt and heavily beaten but still in one piece—is laying near the sink. “Think that old man memory can retain one word until you go upstairs again?”

“Brat.” Ben sits down at the counter, and you flip him off.

“Cunt.

“Any word from the pussy-squad?” He asks, and you throw your phone into his chest.

“Check yourself.” You sigh, turning back to push through the cabinets for flour and salt. “We should really just get you your own phone.”

“I’m fine using yours.” 

“Yeah, you’re really making a huge sacrifice, using my phone.” You turn around, watching him glare at the screen, tapping it aggressively with a single finger. “Need some help there, Pretty Boy?”

“This thing is fucking stupid,” he grunts, eyes scanning the screen. “And I’m doing damn well fine on my own, Sunshine.” He looks up at you with a cocky grin. “Starlight says they’ve got something.”

You tense, feeling air become tight around your body. “Something?”

“She says there’s a lead- goddamnit!”

You move forward, pulling the phone from Ben’s hand. “Oh, shove it up your ass.”

“I was using it-“

“My phone,” you snap. “I reserve the right to take it back whenever.”

“It’s fucking rude-“

You blow a raspberry at him, ignoring his indigent expression to read the message on the display.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

MM got a lead a few days ago from A-Train, Hughie just confirmed it. We’ll be over tonight, need to move fast.

You look up at Ben. “They’ve got a lead. They’ll be here tonight.”

“What time?”

You re-read the message. “Doesn’t say.”

“Assholes.” Ben grunts, standing up to walk to your side. “Do we have all the shit?”

 “What?”

“For the dumplings.” He says, voice bored as he scans the cookbook. “I’ve fucking starving.”

 “Aren’t you worried-“

“Worried is a little fucking dramatic. I’m vigilant, because I don’t trust those fuckers, or whatever goddamn ‘lead’ they have.” Ben looks over at you, eyes narrowed. “But we’re not about to whine and fret about it all day like pussies. We’re going to make shit-ass fucking dumplings, and you’re going to stay out of your own fucking head.”

“I wasn’t going to whine,” you grumble, even though he’s right. You’d already begun to spiral into what confirmed meant, and why the lead was from A-Train, or what about made you need to move fast.

“Sure, Sunshine.” Ben says dryly, nudging you with his shoulder. “Go get me some fucking rice wine.” He scowls at the page. “What the living fuck is rice wine.”

You lean over him, ignoring the rush of warmth when you touch him, and read where he’s pointing. “I’ll look it up. Can you start-“

Before you finish your sentence, Ben is roughly turning the oven dials, heating the front burner.

“Thanks,” you give him a smile, and he waves you off. As he walks past you to the fridge your arms brush, and your heart does a somersault into your stomach.

Rice wine, as it turns out, was an incredibly self-descriptive name for an alcohol that was fermented in rice. Given that the CIA hadn’t deemed it necessary to provide any and a grocery run wasn’t really in the cards, you made the executive call to use white wine instead. Ben supported your decision, informing you flatly that “booze is booze, Sunshine, and I'm not going to be a fucking pussy about it.”

In the week you and Ben had been trying to cook, this was the first time neither of you tried to break something in frustration. There was one close call, where Ben had failed to crimp the fifth dumpling in a row, but managed to restrain himself from smashing them all in vengeful fury. You offered him to take five—saying you were capable of doing this part yourself and he’d done more cabbage squeezing than you had—and though he’d taken a step back with a scowl, he didn’t leave the kitchen.

“I thought you could go set up the TV?” You look up at him, raising your brows. “I can do the rest myself.”

“Do you want me to go?” Ben says your name, eyes narrowed at where you were fixing the lines on one of his dumplings.

You shrug. “Doesn’t really make a difference. You just don’t have to stay here.”

He doesn’t respond, only leaning against the counter and watching you in a silence neither of you try to fill. You can feel Ben’s eyes following you, and trying to dissect what that means is more than enough to keep your mind off the lead.

When you turn to move the now-well-crimped dumplings into the skillet, you almost yelp when you find Ben—having moved impossibly quietly for a man of his size—right behind you. He silently takes the dumplings from your hands, dropping them into the skillet without a word and glaring at them as they cook.

“Plates,” he grunts, and you snap out of your state of mindlessly watching Ben to walk to the cabinets.

Setting them down next to the oven, you stand at Ben’s side with your arms crossed. “How’s the bomb?” You tap his chest, and he shrugs, eyes not moving from the dumplings.

“The fucking same.”

“Really?” You lean forwards slightly. “Because I can’t remember the last time it went off.”

“So?”

“It used to go off like, all the time. At least twice a week.”

Ben gives you a flat look from the corners of his eyes. “Say what you fucking mean.”

You give him a sweet smile. “I think you know what I mean.”

“Fuck you.”

“Uh huh,” you poke his shin with your foot. “Still not ready to admit I was right?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Ben drawls, picking up the skillet and turning away.

“It’s not that hard. You’ve even been sleeping better.”

“That has not a fucking thing to do with this.”

You frown at his back. “I mean, I’d say less PTSD induced nightmares is a pretty good sign-“

“Correlation isn’t fucking causation, ” Ben says your name in a mocking tone, and you huff.

“I fucking taught you that, you dick.”

Ben turns with your plate in his hands. “I’ve told you to stop teaching me shit, and you won’t fucking listen.”

“Shut up,” you grab your food, stuffing a dumpling in your mouth. “Maybe if you weren’t such a dumb-dumb I wouldn’t have to tell you everything.”

“Manners, brat. Don’t you know it’s not polite to eat with your mouth full?”

You stick your tongue out at him, and a large crumb falls from your mouth. “Cunt.” You swallow quickly. “And I still think the PTSD is getting better, no matter how much you bitch about it.”

“I’m not fucking bitching.”

“If you weren’t, you’d admit I was right.”

Ben takes a long, over dramatic sigh that ends with you receiving an impossibly strong death-stare. “Fine.”

“Fine?” You tease, even as a grin overtakes your own face. “That’s all I get? Fine? Not thank you, you queen among women. You were, as always, right, and I, Benjamin-“ you pause, frowning at him. “Do you have a last name?”

“Of course I have a fucking last name. And I’m not saying a goddamn word of that.”

You pout. “Rude.”

“Yep.” Ben starts to walk down the hall, and you follow behind, speaking through a mouthful of your second dumpling.

“Is it something embarrassing?”

 He glances back at you. “The fuck are you talking about.”

 “Your last name. Is it embarrassing?”

 “No.”

 “Is it long?”

 “No.”

 You fall back into the couch, kicking your feet up onto the cushions. “Are you not going to tell me?”

 “No.”

 “So you will tell me?”

 “No, I said-“ He pauses at your wide, cocky grin, rolling his eyes. “You’re a fucking menace.”

“Yep. Why won’t you tell me?”

“It hasn’t been my last name since the damn 40s. It died when Soldier Boy was born, and I don’t want a fucking thing to do with it.”

You tilt your head at him. “Cause of your dad?” He gives an annoyed, low sound of affirmation, so you nod. “Ok.”

He frowns. “That’s it? Just ok?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I was just curious.” You give him a half-smile. “I get it, if I had to carry my mom’s name everywhere, I’d hate it.”

“We’re both too good for them,” Ben grunts., and you wrinkle your nose in thought.

“Are we?”

“Yes, we fucking are.” He snaps. “My dad was a fucking pussy, and your mom sounds like a bitch. I’m not-“

“A fucking pussy?” You finish, and your smile is full and toothy. “Does that mean I’m not a bitch?”

He scoffs. “Of course you’re not.”

“Say the full thing.”

“What?”

You lean forward. “Say the whole sentence. Say ‘you aren’t a bitch,’” you say your own name sweetly. “So I know that you mean it.”

Ben glares at you. “I fucking mean it, Sunshine. I’m not a-“ 

“Liar, I know.” You grin. “Prove it.”

With a deep sigh, impressive scowl, and laziest voice you’ve ever heard, Ben says your name. “You aren’t a bitch.”

“Was that so hard?”

“You’re lucky I put up with you, beautiful.” Ben mutters, and your heart feels warm and full.

“I could say the same for you.” You nudge him, forcing yourself to ignore the beautiful part because you’ll go insane trying to find reason in it. “You’ve been blessed with my infinite patience, Ben. Never forget that.”

Ben looks you up and down—like he’s trying to find a piece of you he’d missed before—and when he finally meets your eyes, his own are firm. “I’m going to say something, and you have to swear not to lose your damn mind.”

“No promises.”

“Sunshine.”

“Fine.” You grumble, placing your plate on the floor. “But you have to swear that it’s not something weird.”

“You didn’t want to see your sister because of your shit fucking plan.”

You wrap your arms around your body, holding yourself tightly. “Doesn’t-“

“If you say matter I will revoke all your favors right fucking now.”

“That’s not how it works.” You mutter, keeping your eyes firmly watching your lap.

“Fucking try me.” You feel Ben’s hand rest on your shin, and something that stings your heart rushes through your body. When you look up he’s frowning, but there’s no anger behind it, and his gaze is careful. “We’re not doing your plan. You should tell her you’re not dead. She needs to know.”

“What if this doesn’t work?” You say softly, nails digging into your skin. “What if the lead is a dead end and I-“

“If it’s a dead end, we’ll find another fucking lead. And another, until we find one that does something.” He squeezes his hand against you, and heat moves through your body. “You’re not going back. That’s fucking that.”

“Okay,” you breathe, and even after Ben nods sharply, neither of you look away. You swallow, forcing yourself to speak. “I’ll think about it. About telling her.”

Ben grunts, but still doesn’t turn back to the TV. “Once this is over, you’ll fucking have to if you want a damn life.”

“Not if I go with you.” The words fall out of you before you realize you’re saying them. Your heart stumbles around in your chest, mouth falling open, but Ben’s already speaking.

“You should still fucking tell them. They can come visit.”

You blink. “Visit?”

“They aren’t going to ship me off to fucking Mars, Sunshine.”

“Yeah, I got that. I just didn’t think you’d want visitors.”

“I don’t give a shit. They’re your family.”

“They think I’m dead.” You frown. “They think you’re a terrorist. They’ll have questions.”

“Then we’ll fucking answer them.”

“We don’t know where you’ll be going, what we’ll be doing-“

“Probably some shit-ass island,” Ben grunts “And I have money. We’ll be fucking fine.”

“Well,” you frown. “We don’t know what island, and all your money is gone-”

“The fuck do you mean gone.” Ben cuts you off, sitting up rigid.

“Everyone thought you were dead,” You say carefully. “Dead people don’t get money.”

“But I wasn’t fucking dead,” He snaps, scanning your face. “I was fucking alive.”

“I know that. But I’m not the government in the 1980s.” You frown. “Did you think all your money was just, sitting around and waiting for you?”

“I didn’t fucking think about it!” Ben looks remarkably distressed. “I didn’t think anyone had laid their pussy ass hands on it!”

“I mean, it’s been like 45 years.”

“So fucking what? It’s my goddamn money!”

“Ben,” you place your hand over where he’s still holding you. “Calm the hell down.”

“I’m fucking calm!” You try to hold your amusement as his voice raises, feeling his genuine anger and shock through your body.

“I can see that,” you say dryly, and Ben scowls at you.

“Get off your fucking high horse,” he snaps. “You’d be fucking angry-“

“If my death was faked and my life was taken away from me?” You give him a bored look. “Gee, I wonder what that’s like.”

He pauses, still glaring at you. “Smartass.”

“Yep.” You shrug. “You’ll be fine, Ben. Part of the CIA deal was livable compensation. And you could get a job.”

He glowers. “A job?”

You snort. “It’s this thing normal people do, where they provide service in exchange for money-“

“Shut the fuck up,” he squeezes his hand again, and you hope he doesn’t see the flush of your face. “I know what a job is.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Brat,” he grumbles. “What fucking job could I possibly get.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in mock thought. “With the forty year gap in your resume-“

He gives a huff, but you feel the amusement shooting through him. “Not funny.”

“A little funny,” you dismiss, continuing. “You could do construction, or be a bouncer. You’d kill it at any physical labor. You be an ok birthday clown if you weren’t such a grump-“

“I am not a grump-“

You talk over him. “Now, my personal vote is escort. And if I go with you, I think I’d be an amazing pimp. We could build an empire, earn all your money back.”

Ben snorts. “Why do I have to be the whore?”

“You’re doing it for free right now,” you try and keep your face straight, but are unable to hide the delight in your voice at his adorable frown. “And I’d be a terrible whore. We’d be out of business in a week.”

“You’d be a great whore,” Ben’s voice is shockingly indigent. “You’d make a fortune.”

You frown, unsure if it’s meant to be a compliment, or why you can feel his offense so strongly in your body. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” he grunts. “And I’d be a better fucking pimp anyway.”

“Holy shit,” you laugh. “You’d be a terrible pimp.”

“And what makes you think you’d be better, Sunshine?” He sneers, and you shrug with a smile.

“For one, I don’t call escorts whores. And I’ve read about your business endeavors in the 80s. I never would’ve tried to open a Soldier Boy themed bar and grill, and if I had I wouldn't've served green-dyed rocky road ice cream as the only desert option.”

Despite the annoyance you can feel through him–proven by the tick of his jaw and glare—Ben asks, “What would you have done.”

“Mint chocolate chip.” As you’re grinning at Ben’s scowl, you realize that he’s distracted you again. For a second you’re almost resentful—not loving how easily he flashed something shiny for you to ramble about and how fast you took the bait—and then you realize his hand is still on your shin, and that you’re not gripping at your arms or cutting into your skin anymore.

“You think you’re real clever,” he mutters, and your smile widens.

“Of course I do. I’m the brains, you’re the beauty. That’s what makes the business model work.”

Ben is giving you a cocky smirk, and you don’t hear your words until his rush of smug satisfaction hits you. “I’m the beauty?”

“Well, yeah.” You try to act bored, nonchalant. Like your heart isn’t fluttering and your body isn’t warm. “We’re both the brawn, you’re definitely not the brains, and I’m not the beauty, so we divide-“

His hand on your leg tightens its hold. “The fuck do you mean you’re not the beauty?”

“I mean, I’m not ugly.” You say passively. “But I’m not-“

“Not what?” He snaps, and you blink at him.

“I don’t know, Vought level.”

“Vought level?”

“Yeah. Sparkling, jaw-dropping, brand-worthy.”

“What makes you fucking think that?” He’s glaring at you, like you’ve personally offended him. You can feel something strong, something confusing, pounding through his chest. “You’re plenty jaw-dropping.”

“I’m not being self-deprecating,” you frown. “I’m stating fact-“

“That’s not a damn fact.”

“I’m not upset about it,” you frown at him. “I’ve got other good qualities-“

“Well, you’re still fucking wrong.”

His grip on you is so tight, you’d be worried about bruising if that was possible. You can still feel his anger, and though it’s not aimed at you it’s still powerful. Tight and loud.

“Ben-“

The entrance door bangs open, and you both look up to see MM entering the house, Hughie only a few steps behind.

“Good, you’re already dressed-“ MM cuts himself off as he passes the kitchen. “The fuck happened in there?”

“Cooking,” you say sheepishly, craning your neck to see if anyone else is coming through the door. “Is it just you guys?”

“Everyone else is in the car,” Hughie explains, and you frown.

“Everyone?”

“It’s all hands on deck,” MM says shortly, still glaring at the kitchen. “It looks like a bomb went off.”

“Several almost did.” You stand, Ben’s hand falling from your leg. “What’s going on? Annie said there was a lead-“

“We’ll explain on the way,” Hughie says nervously. “It’s a little time sensitive.”

“We’re not going fucking anywhere-“ Ben rises, glowering at Hughie. “Until you tell us the goddamn deal.”

MM pulls his gaze from the kitchen. “You’re going wherever the fuck we tell you.”

“The fuck we are-”

“We are,“ you whack Ben’s arm, giving him tense look of don’t be a fucking dick. “Time sensitive, Benjamin. They’ll explain.” 

Ben shoots MM and Hughie distrustful glares. “It might be fucking stupid-“

MM scoffs. “We’re not the ones who come up with stupid plans.”

“That feels targeted,” you mumble, and Hughie gives you an apologetic look.

“I promise it’s worth something,” he says, looking between you and Ben quickly. “We wouldn’t put you in danger,” Hughie says your name gently, and you shrug.

“I know.”

Ben snorts, muttering just loud enough for you to hear. “You do that enough by your fucking self, Sunshine.”

You stomp hard on his foot, giving MM and Hughie a smile. “Let’s roll then.” As they turn, slightly confused looks on their faces, you stick your tongue out at Ben.

“You’re so fucking mean,” he complains, following you out the door.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes. “You love it.”

Ben grunts, and you walk a little faster so he doesn’t see the flush on your face or accidentally touch you. That might send you into cardiac arrest.

MM wasn’t lying. It’s all hands on deck. Frenchie and Kimiko look up from their silent conversation as the doors open, Annie’s jittering slows as Hughie takes his spot next to her, and Butcher is glaring at you as Ben helps you climb into the van.

“Well, aren’t I just tickled that America’s golden couple decided to join us,” he sneers, and you flip him off, waving to Kimiko.

I’m glad you’re here, she signs. This is a good plan, you’ll like it.

You smile. So I shouldn’t be worried?

Only the regular amount.

You laugh, and Ben nudges your shoulder.

“The fuck did she say,” he mutters in your ear.

You keep your response quiet, walking to sit along the edge of the wall. “That I’ll like the plan.”

“Are any of you pussies going to actually fucking tell us the plan?” Ben raises his voice, and you roll your eyes.

“Drama queen,” you say under your breath, and he subtly whacks your leg.

“Remember last week,” Annie starts, leaning forwards as she addresses you. “When MM asked you about where Homelander was holding you when he started the V?”

You take a heavy breath, nodding. You’d answered his text best you could—somewhere near the Hudson, south of Albany—but at the time you’d just ran. In any direction, as far as you could without collapsing. Eventually you’d found an interstate highway and followed it until you found somewhere to rest and take stock of your surroundings, but that was miles from where you’d started.

“Well,” she continues, voice a bit softer even as the van’s engine begins to rumble. “A-Train gave us some documents about Vought-owned spaces in the region, and Vought scientists who lived near them.”

“We don’t know if Homelander was even using a Vought building-“ You protest, but Annie shakes her head.

“He probably wasn’t. But he would’ve needed easy access to Vought supplies. And we found a warehouse in Climax, New York-“ 

You feel Ben stiffen next to you, and shoot him an I heard it too, but please shut up look.

He returns it with a fucking killjoy eye roll, but stays quiet.

Annie, oblivious to the exchange, continues. “That stored compound V, along with a lot of other experimental chemicals. There were also seven Vought chemists and biologists who lived in the area, all of whom died six months ago, and each one had a close-casket funeral.”

You swallow, bile that tastes like guilt rising in your throat. You’d burned them alive. There might not have even been bodies to bury. “If you- If you show me a photo-“ Ben leans into you slightly—hand finding your thigh—and you can speak without choking. “I could identify them. They were the only people I saw for the four months after Homelander moved me.”

You can feel something sharp shot through your ribs—Ben’s ribs—living a stinging trail in its wake.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” Hughie says, glancing at Annie. “We should’ve just done that.”

“What did you do instead?” You ask, frowning.

Hughie gives you an embarrassed look. “We kind of, uh…”

“Jesus, Lad, just bloody say it.” Butcher mutters before giving you a wolfish grin. “We visited the families. Asked ‘em about what fuckery their beloved spouses and children got up to.”

“You harassed families about this?” You ask just as Ben says, “And did they fucking tell you anything?”

Butcher ignores you, answering Ben instead. “Most told us to fuck off, but one said that her dear husband always seemed fuckin guilty about something. Said he’d come back haunted.”

You feel the fire under your skin. Haunted. He’d felt guilty, for what he was doing. To you. But he’d kept doing it.

Your voice is slightly cracked. “I don’t see how that’s a lead though-“

“We asked her if she knew where he had worked,” Hughie says. “Like what town or city, and she said he never told her because of the NDA Vought made him sign, but that he always came back with donuts from this one shop. We looked it up, and it was near the warehouse.”

“From there it was real bloody easy,” Butcher drawls. “Hughie worked his fucking little geek magic, and we checked finance statements of a few shops in the area. A few cunts who were buying donuts and coffee are currently six feet under after an accident six months ago. Terrible thing, all their faces exploded, like a bloody laser hit them. Wanna guess who they fuckin worked for?”

You shake your head, but Butcher isn’t waiting. “The one and only rich bastard, Tek Knight.”

“That could be a coincidence,“ you say nervously. “I don’t think it would hold up as evidence.”

“It ain’t fucking evidence,” Butcher grins. “It’s proof that someone who ain’t Homelander or bloody dead might’ve known about project Anomaly. It’s a solid fucking lead.”

“So we’re going…” You trail off, looking around the van for someone to explain. “Where?”

“Well, Love,” Butcher leans back. “I happen to know from a few informants that Tek Knight runs a gentlemen’s club in bloody Staten Island. Real classy joint, underground, need a password to get in type shit.”

“Informants?” You give Butcher a flat look, and he rolls his eyes.

“Had to do something with all the threats I made last week. I didn’t get fucking shot just to waste a perfectly good mole.”

Hughie stares at Butcher, agape. “You got shot?”

Butcher waves a dismissive hand. “I’m fine, it ain’t a big deal.”

“Well, yeah,” you frown. “Because I healed you. It was bad,” you say to Hughie. “Big shot, right on his chest.” 

“Got blood all of the fucking floor,” Ben mutters, and you scoff.

“You’re not the one who had to clean it up, Ben.”

“I offered-“

You glare at him. “You said ‘I’ll hold the bucket’. That’s not cleaning, it’s barely helping.”

Hughie coughs, returning your attention to him. “Um, the shot?”

“Oh, yeah. It was bad.” You shrug, tapping your leg as you look at Butcher. “You never actually said what happened.”

“I was getting your fucking plan ready,” Butcher over enunciates the your, glaring around the van as he does so. “Making sure Homelander would hear about you and not think twice of it. Had my own little double agents, took a shit ton of effort to get them, too. And like I said, I ain’t about to waste all my hard work.”

“So they told you about the club?” You ask, and Butcher smirks.

“They didn’t tell me just about the club. They told me the password, and that Tek Knight’s there, right fuckin now.”

“And that’s where we’re going,” MM called from the front. “Hopefully that motherfucker will have some answers.”

You almost ask but what if he doesn’t? What if there’s nothing? but Ben squeezes your leg, and you look up to find him watching you.

This will fucking work, his face says. And because you can feel his resolve, that protective concern wrapping around your body and through your blood, you nod.

You’d been to Staten Island once. The Senator had been attending a fundraiser in New York and insisted on taking you and your siblings to the National Lighthouse Museum, because he was the most boring man in the world. You’d asked to go to the Met, or the zoo, or at least the Empire State Building, but no. The National Lighthouse Museum. Now, years later, you were slightly taken about by how similar everything looked to your hazy childhood memory. Brick and stone and trash against the curb.

“Why Staten Island?” You ask, and Hughie shrugs.

“It’s cheap, I guess.”

“Isn’t Tek Knight a billionaire?” You point out. “That’s like, his whole thing.”

“Does not stop him from being cheap,” Frenchie mutters. “Every cheap man I have known holds millions of dollars behind his back.”

“Well, if it’s a high end club, you would think he’d want some modicum of luxury in his location.” 

Butcher snorts. “I think this ain’t the type of place that requires luxury, Love.”

“You said it was a gentlemen’s club-“

“It is. Of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” You snap, wide-eyed. “I swear to god-“ 

“It’s an indulgence. For rich pricks who need to get away from their wives and have some fucking fun.”

“Butcher,” Annie says slowly, coldly. “Are we going to a sex club?”

“No,” Butcher’s face is scornful. “They don’t do the sex in the club. That’s for after.”

“After?” You gape. “After what?”

“The performances. Bunch of classy broads whose daddies didn’t love ‘em enough, competing to get the richest cunt pay to take them home and do coke off their tits.” He winks at Ben. “You’ll fuckin love it, gov.”

Ben’s grip on you tightens, and you feel hot anger in his chest. “Fuck you.”

“Aren’t we sensitive,” Butcher jeers, “Gone soft, have we?”

You narrow your eyes at him as you cover Ben’s hand with yours, feeling his anger barreling towards fury. In a miracle of timing, the van comes to a stop right when you think Ben might punch a hole through Butcher’s chest.

As you exit the van, the alleyway around you is abandoned in the night, a few closed doors looking like they lead to very abandoned buildings.

“Are you sure this is it?” Annie voices your thoughts, looking at MM with concern.

“This is the address Butcher gave me, ask him.”

“This is right,” Butcher looks around, hands in pockets. “Frenchie, got the costumes?”

Hughie’s face pales. “Costumes?”

Butcher ignores him, shouting, “Frenchie?!”

“Oui, in the back.”

“Go bloody get them.”

Frenchie frowns, but disappears back into the van, Kimiko following after signing lazy asshole at Butcher.

“What do you mean costumes,” Hughie pushes further. “Like disguises?”

“On the money, Lad.”

“You said we had the password, Butcher,” MM glowers. “The fuck do we need disguises for.” 

“They ain’t gonna just let us in,” Butcher says. “Even if they don’t recognize us, Soldier Boy and Starlight together are a dead bloody giveaway that somethings shady. We’re goin through the back, passwords just a failsafe.”

“So why do we need costumes?” MM snaps.

“Blendin in, mate.” Butcher shrugs as Frenchie exits the van, with a set of folded outfits. “Let’s get fucking moving, we’ll change inside.”

After Butcher shatters a window that sits around knee-height, Kimiko drops through it with another glare and scowl. A few, stressful seconds later, one of the steel doors opens down the alley, and you follow the group down steep stairs and into one of the creepiest fluorescent lit hallways you’ve ever seen.

“You ever see The Shining?” Ben mutters in your ear, and you nod, glancing back at him.

“When I was thirteen, at a friend’s sleepover. I wanted Jennifer’s Body, but I got outvoted. Why?”

“This creepy fucking hallway reminded me of it.” You can hear the tone drop that means he’s frowning, feel his confusion as his hand brushes your arm. “What’s Jennifer’s Body?”

“Teen horror movie. Megan Fox gets possessed by a demon and murders a bunch of men about it. It’s hot.”

“Hot?”

You nod passively. “Her dress is kind of ugly at the end, but she’s so pretty it works. We’ll watch it later.”

There’s pause. “You like it?”

“The movie, or Megan Fox?”

“Both.” He says, and you hum an agreement.

“Megan Fox is objectively hot, and it’s a great movie. I mean, it’s trash, but that’s what makes it great. You’ll like it.”

“Fine.”

“Hot ladies and murder, Ben, it checks all your boxes.” You shoot him a grin over your shoulder as you follow the team into a side room, and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m already fucking sold, Sunshine.” He says, stopping at your side. “Calm the hell down.”

You wrinkle your nose at him as Butcher starts to direct everyone’s role in the plan.

“Me, MM, and Soldier Boy will be rich cunts. Try and squeeze some information out of these haughty fucking pricks.” Butcher points at each person as he speaks, and Frenchie passes them neatly folded and pressed suits.

“I’m not wearing a fucking suit,” Ben grunts, glaring at you for aid. You just shrug, half because you pick your battle carefully and know you’ll lose this one, half because you really want to see Ben in a suit.

“Don’t look at me, Pretty Boy. I’m not the one you have to convince.”

“And you don’t get to pick and choose this shit, motherfucker.” MM snaps. “You don’t get special treatment.”

“Aren’t I not allowed anywhere without-” Ben’s grumble of your name is cut off by Butcher’s snort.

“We’ve got enough of Frenchie’s Soldier Boy Special to knock out the whole bleedin state. You’re wearing the suit, Gov.”

You shrug half-heartedly, giving Ben an apologetic look you can feel his exasperation at through where his arm is brushing yours.

Fucking traitor. His frown says.

You grin. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Frenchie and Kimiko will be staff,” Butcher says. “Talk to some of the waiters and shit, see what they’re hearin.”

Nodding, Frenchie sets a stereotypical waiter’s uniform down on the floor for himself, and passes one to Kimiko.

Why are we staff? She signs at Frenchie with a frown, and he shrugs.

Because, you nudge Kimiko with your foot, signing when she looks. Your dick is too big for those insecure, money hungry assholes, they’ll start crying about it.

She grins, and you look back at Butcher in time to hear the last instructions.

“Starlight and Hughie will search the back courtesy of our very own songbird.” He turns to you with a smirk, saying your name. “I hope those pipes are warm and ready.”

You blink, speaking slowly as fire starts to itch in your throat. “What are you talking about.”

Butcher’s smile grows. “Figured we’d put your talent to use. You’re going on stage.”

Everything feels white-hot along your lungs and brain, and your mouth is dry. “What the fuck did you do.”

“Signed you up for the talent, Love.” Butcher's tone is passive, bored, and you might start screaming. “I hear exposure therapy works wonders.”

“Holy shit, Butcher.“ Annie gives him a look of disbelief. “What the hell is your problem?”

“We needed someone backstage, workin the girls.” Butcher shrugs. “She’s the easiest in.”

You take a deep, heavy breath, pushing the fire down and meeting Butcher eyes steadily. “Is this because we dropped the plan? Is that why you’re being such a fucking child?”

“I ain’t got a clue what you’re implying.”

“Butcher,” you say, slow and careful in your words. “I can’t do this. You don’t want me to do this.”

“Because of a little fuckin stage fright? You don’t get any exceptions either-”

“No,” you grip yourself tightly as you cut Butcher off. “I just need you, for once, to trust me. You don’t want this.”

“I think I’ll manage to live,” Butcher sneers, and something in you feels fraught.

“I can’t fucking do this,” you look desperately around the room. “Somebody else has to do this. Annie can sing, have her do it.”

“But she’s recognizable,” Hughie says sorry, his face a picture of guilt.

You whip around to MM, saying his name in a plea. “You can’t let him do this. It’s not just stage fright, I can’t sing in front of people.”

“They probably won’t put you on stage,” MM frowns. “And even though he’s being a fucking dick about it, he’s right. We need someone backstage.”

“No,” you shake your head in disbelief. “You don’t understand.”

“Look, we’ve all bloody heard you,” Butcher says lazily. “And MM’s right, you probably won’t even go onstage. We all gotta make fuckin sacrifices.”

“You don’t care about the sacrifices,” you hiss, the brittle thing in your body snapping in two. “You just hate me because I’m a supe and you can’t control me. I’m not scared to go onstage, I fucking can’t. I’ll-“ you choke over your words, pushing down the truth. They’d heard you sing. They hadn’t been in the room with you. They hadn’t seen what it did.

Ben's hand is on your back, and you feel the rage in him. Violent and bloody and making the world focused. From the corner of your eye, you see him glaring at your team, the look on his face murderous.

You take a deep breath, steady your heart into even beats, your world sharp and cold as your words become measured. “I don’t have words for how terrible an idea this is.”

Butcher shrugs. “Well-“

“But I’m going to power through and find them.” You sneer. “It’s a dogshit, idiotic, fucking insanely stupid idea, so much that I’m almost fucking impressed! It’s so batshit crazy that it makes my brain hurt, makes me wonder how fuck you’ve gotten away with not dying yet.” You take a rushed breath. “But I’m going to do it. I’ll do it, because I said I was going to do what it takes. But I will never,” you say every syllable long and clear. “Ever, fucking forgive this.”

Annie says your name apologetically, even as she takes a step back. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way-“

“I know that,” you say, holding your ground. “And I know you don’t hate me. I know you’re afraid of me, and I get it. But you don’t trust me. I don’t know why, but none of you trust me. So I’ll do it, but you don’t get to be mad at me or disappointed in me when it goes sideways.”

You snatch the last thing Frenchie is holding, a dress, and don’t flinch as you hold their nervous, shameful expressions.

“Bathrooms are down the hall,” MM mutters, not meeting your eyes. “We’ll get changed and split up. Everyone keep their phones near them.” 

As everyone filters out, Ben holds you back. “We can fucking lea-“

“We’re not leaving,” you say flatly. “I’ll be fine.”

“You look like you’re about to damn explode,” He says your name with a frown, and you roll your eyes.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Ben growls. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not afraid of you, I trust you, and I came to terms with the fact that nobody can control you a long fucking time ago. It’s one of the things I like about you. So don’t fucking lie to me.”

You make yourself hold your eyes to his, but you can’t keep your voice controlled. “Ben, I have to tell you some-“

Hughie pushes the door open, looking between where you and Ben stand, close together with his hand on the small of your back. “Sorry,” he stumbles words over each other. “Annie and I just, uh, we can’t go without you.” He’s still not glancing at you for more than a second, even as he says your name. “So, whenever you’re ready.”

Forcing your head not to turn back to Ben, you nod. “I”m coming,” you say, and hate the bitter tone in your voice as you walk into the hall.

You find the bathrooms with ease, Annie leaning outside the door in the same clothes from before, and push past her through the swinging door.

Kimiko is there, sitting silently on the sink in her waiter uniform. You give her a small, joyless smile before pushing into one of the disgusting, grime covered stalls. The dress you’ve been given is short, low-cut, and feels like poison on your skin. When you walk back out, fully changed, Kimiko jumps down from the sink, moving to grab your hand firmly.

You blink at her, feeling the genuine guilt and sadness running through her, without any pity or fear.

“I’m not mad at you,” you say gently. “You couldn’t have done much.”

She shakes her head, releasing her grip to sign I’m still sorry. They shouldn’t have done that, even if it’s important.

“I’ll live. And I know they mean well.” Even if the words feel hollow, you say them anyway.

Doesn’t make it okay, she signs furiously. You’ve sacrificed.

“But-“

You have. Just as much as all of us. You didn’t choose to be this, just like me. It’s not your fault you’re a supe, you shouldn’t be punished for it.

“It’s different. They all trust you.”

They can hurt me with weapons. I heal, but they can hurt me. They can’t hurt you. So they do this instead.

You sigh. “This won’t hurt me. It’ll just be….” You watch your reflection in the mirror. “Bad.”

Why?

“Because,” you give her a sad smile. “They’re right not to trust me. I keep too many secrets.”

Secrets?

“The third V shot, it-“

For the second time, right before you can lift this weight off your chest, the door opens.

“We need to go,” Annie says. Just like Hughie, she won’t look at you either.

You nod, giving Kimiko a closed-lip, grimacing smile, and follow Annie out of the bathroom. Hughie’s waiting outside, foot tapping with his hands on his hips.

“Are we ready?” At Annie’s nod, Hughie gestures down the hall. “Butcher said he marked the door. I don’t know what that means.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Annie reassures him, and you follow them further down the hall. 

“They’ll have a different dress backstage for you, this is just to get you in the door.” You blink at Annie as she drops a step back to talk to you. “I’m really sor-“

“Save it,” you say flatly.

“If this works, it’ll be over soon. All of it.” Her voice is soft, like you’re fragile. “I know you said you can’t-“

“Annie.” You keep your eyes ahead, make your voice firm. “For both our sake, please just stop.”

“We’re here.” Hughie stops any further attempts to apologize from Annie as he points to a scratch mark on the frame of a red door. He says your name in that same, delicate tone Annie was using. “You’ll go first, Butcher said to find the ‘sleazy greased cunt’s office’. Just, uh, prop open the door or something and we’ll follow.”

You nod, and—without another look to either of them—walk through the door.

The difference is immediate. Lush, carpeted floors. Clean walls. Everything smells like smoke and spice and all the lights are a soft yellow. You walk carefully down the hall, and stop when you reach a door that’s been left slightly ajar, enough to fully see inside the room. There’s a middle aged man at a desk, wearing a gray suit and an egregious amount of hair mousse as he scrolls through something on the computer. Glancing back at the door—sporting a silver plaque reading Talent Office—you decide it’s more than an educated guess that he’s the sleazy greased cunt Butcher was referring to.

Steeling yourself, you knock.

The man looks up almost immediately, a crude smile crossing his face. “Well, hello there. How can I help you, sweetheart?”

“Are you in charge of the talent?” You ask, making your voice sweet, eyes doe-like, and expression naive and innocent. It takes an active effort to keep your lips from curling in disgust at the once over he gives you.

“Read the sign, gorgeous.” You want to wrap that too-big tie around his throat, even as you give him a simpering pout.

“Oh, sorry.” Breathy laugh, inflate his ego, don’t rip out his slimy hair. “My friend said he found me a job.”

“Your friend?” The man asks, frowning slightly. “Angry brit?”

“Yeah,” you silently curse Butcher, both for the situation he’s put you in and not giving you enough information about it. “I hope he didn’t give you enough of a problem? I can go-“

“No,” the man stands, moving from behind his desk. “You’re just fine where you are. Dude seemed protective, but seeing you, it makes sense.” He chuckles, and the sound crawls along your skin. 

“Oh, thank you.” This smile is making your cheeks hurt, and you move your hand behind your back so he doesn’t see your nails in your skin. Or that the marks don’t stay.

“Yeah, I’m liking what I’m seeing.” He winks at you, and you wonder how easy it is for eyes to burn. “I’m gonna get the big boss, you stay right here beautiful.”

You want to rip out his tongue. He doesn’t get to call you that. Nobody gets to, except-

“Oh,” you shake your head slightly, trying to seem shy while physically forcing the thoughts out of your head. “I’m sure you don’t have to bother him-“

“Nah, he’ll love to see you.” The man reaches up, rubbing your arms as he moves you slightly to the side. “Don’t go anywhere.”

With one last awful wink, he’s gone.

You feel your phone buzz in your hand.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

Are you in? 

Not yet, you text back. Butcher was right, Tek Knight is here.

Annie’s typing, but before she can send the text, you hear a voice coming and look up sharply. You barely manage to turn back into the terrible persona you’ve chosen for yourself before Mr. Talent returns, another suit-clad man at his side.

This one you recognize. Grossly expensive suit, short hair, wolf-like smile and cold eyes.

“Tek Knight,” you reach out your hand, making your voice soft and of wonder rather than fevered disgust. “It’s a honor, sir-“

“This her?” Tek Knight looks you up and down, slower than Mr. Talent had. “Nice.”

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head instead of punching his.

He ignores you. “And someone vouched for her?”

Mr. Talent nods. “Yes, sir. Mean guy, sounded British over the phone. Said she sounded like an angel.”

“He your boyfriend?” Your mouth falls open when you realize you’re being addressed.

 “No, just a friend. Wanted to help me out, I haven’t had much luck finding a new job.” 

“Good,” Tek Knight’s nod makes your stomach churns, his eyes still scanning over your figure. “She’s got the looks. Smoking hot.” You have to physically bite your tongue. “Can you dance?” 

“Enough,” you say truthfully, even if the words are sugary. “I know how to put on a show.”

Tek Knight nods, speaking to Mr. Talent without looking away from you. “Put her on stage. Tonight. And tell me when she’s up.” 

You think the shock in your body might stop you from ever speaking again. You just stare, mouth open, as Tek Knight gives a click of his tongue and walks away. You don’t even have a mind to try and play it off as graceful shyness, or humble disbelief from being chosen. The fire is loud in your ears, time moving too fast. The world isn’t blurry, it’s too sharp, bright and far away. Mr. Talent is talking with a hand on your lower back, but you can barely feel it, and you can’t really hear him. All you can think is no. He’s guiding you down the hall, through another door, and all you can do is stumble where he pushes you forward.

“…and we’ll need your measurements, sweetheart.” Mr. Talent’s words manage to find their way into your head as he pushes you down into a chair, across from one of those dressing mirrors you’ve only seen in movies. “We can find a dress that fits fine until one of the girls will make you something special.”

“Oh, that's not necessary.” Your voice is quiet, and you’re not faking nervous humility anymore as you try to stand on shaky legs. “I can just-“

“All of our talent gets custom outfits,” Mr. Talent speaks over you, hands moving to your shoulders. Holding you in the seat. “We’ll figure out your sell, and you’ll get one too.”

“My sell?”

He winks at you in the mirror. “Your brand, darling.” You wish he would settle on one nickname. “Are you sour or sweet? Hot or pretty? Heartbreaker or girl-next-door? Gentle or a little spitfire? What’s your pitch? Why should they take you home?”

“I don’t-“

“Now usually, we’d wait a few shows before deciding. But I think the boss might want you to fit to him.” A painful lump is sitting in your throat. “And luckily, I know what he likes. Candy!”

You frown—confusion pushing through your clouding fear as you think you might be about be covered in whipped cream and chocolate—until a pink-haired, acrylic-nailed woman appears from seemingly nowhere at Mr. Talent’s side.

“What’s up, Mikey?” She’s talking to Mr. Talent, chewing gum loudly through her words, twisting a large and gaudy diamond ring on her finger.

“New girl. I’m putting her on in an hour, get her ready.”

Candy scans over you through the mirror, a pouting frown on her face. “She new new?” At Mr. Talent’s nod, she gives him a worried look. “Shouldn’t we wait-“

“No time for regular training, boss’s orders she’s on tonight.”

“Boss’s orders?” Candy's mouth falls open for a second, and Mr. Talent just shrugs. “Does that mean-“

“Full special. She’s singing, make sure it matches.”

Candy nods, and with that, Mr. Talent is gone.

“What’s your name, babe?” Candy asks, her nails combing gentle through your hair, holding your gaze in the mirror.

You tell her truthfully, and she hums.

“How’d you end up here?”

“My friend got me the job.”

“Friend? How’d she know about this?”

“He’s into shady shit.” Truth. “But he just wants what’s best for me.” Lie.

“He?” Candy makes a sour face, and when her hand falls to your shoulder you feel genuine concern running through her chest. “He ain’t your boyfriend, right?”

You shake your head. “You’re the second person to ask me that,” you say carefully. Her heart flips slightly, so you push forward. “Would it be a, like a problem if he was?”

“They don’t like us having those types of attachments,” she says flatly. “Makes the clients insecure.” You glance at the ring on her finger, and she chuckles slightly. “My wife don’t count to them. It’s exotic, sexy. Not a threat.”

“That sucks,” you mutter, and she just shrugs. 

“I get to keep her. Get to be happy. Most girls here don’t get that.”

You watch Candy reach to the side, pulling to her side a trolley of makeup and products that would put Annie’s to shame. “How long have you been here?”

“Almost ten years. Longer than anyone, even Mikey.” She examines lipsticks as she speaks, glancing between your reflection and the colors. “Been dancing twenty, ballet, but this pays better than any arts center.”

“So you know everyone?” You make your tone casual, curious. An innocent girl at a new job. “Even Tek Knight?”

Though her face is neutral, Candy’s hand brushing your hair from your face betrays something sour in her gut. “Most everyone. And he’s a fine boss, but that’s all I know about Tek Knight.”

“What about the other staff?”

“Lot of turnover,” she pulls your hair fully back with a clip. “Mikey said you’re singing?”

The stone in your gut and itch in your throat returns quickly. “I don’t know, I don’t have anything prepared.”

“They’ll take care of that.” Candy moves around to stand in front of you. “You just gotta put on the show they want.”

“Oh,” you swallow, and Candy must notice, because she gives you a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, you’ll do great. Just play up whatever they tell you to by a hundred.” At your confused expression, she continues. “If they want us sweet, we make it sickly. If they want us hot, be the sun. Mysterious, be Agatha Christie.”

“I don’t know what they want from me though.”

“You’re getting the boss special.” Candy explains, holding your chin up as she begins her work. “He likes them gentle but fierce, cute but hot, a good chase but an easy catch. “

You try and keep your face still as you respond. “That doesn’t make any sense. Those words are oxymorons, you can’t be both at once, it’s a Madonna-whore complex-“ You cut yourself off at the amused look on Candy’s face.

“We know that.” She says. “But they don’t care. They want a toy, not a woman. Lucky for us, they pay a shit ton for toys.”

You give a small sound of acknowledgement, falling silent as Candy continues her work, and when she steps to the side your face is painted—lips red and eyes shimmering—with every strand of hair in a careful place.

“Gorgeous,” Candy smiles at you. “You’re up soon, feel free to warm up while I get your outfit.”

As she leaves the room, you watch yourself in the mirror, the person almost unrecognizable. You can’t do this. Not just because it will give everything away, because the secret you’ve buried too deeply and piously will be revealed. Because there’s no way to know what will happen. You don’t get to pick the song, they could give you one that sends you into a dreamscape or conjures fireworks, or one that sends you into childhood. Into the white room. You can’t do this. Even your team didn’t think it would come to this. It’s not too late to run. You could find Ben easily—you don’t think you could miss him in a crowd if you tried—and tell him the truth. He’d help you leave, he’d always help you leave. But no matter what, you need to find him. Tell him first. The last secret, he needs to know before anything else happens. You need to tell him, now-

Candy returns, holding a long, silky dress. Passing it into your hands, she gives you a kind smile.

“You’re going to do great, they’ll love you.” You don’t want them to love you, you need to find Ben. Before- “You’re next, I’d get changed now.” Candy squeezed your hand, and you feel genuine worry for you, paired with nervous hope. “Good luck.”

You’re rooted in place for a minute after she leaves. There has to be a way out of this, you heard the door’s lock click, but there has to be a way. You can’t do this, you have to go find Ben-

Only the buzzing of your phone pulls you from your head. 

William Butcher: Worst Boss Ever

Starlight says you’re not answering her.

If you’re not dead, get your shit together.

You glare at the messages before dropping your phone next to the dress, running its material through your hands. It’s cool and smooth, and when you finally manage to make yourself change into it, it feels like a snake skin. Flowing around you, cold and slimy and wrong.

“You ready, gorgeous?” It’s Mr. Talent—Mikey, Candy called him—pushing through the door and letting out a bone-chilling whistle when he sees you. “Hot damn, yeah you are.”

“I, uh-“ You need to find a way, at least delay this. “I still don’t know what I’m singing.”

Mikey winks at you, holding out a sheet of printed paper. “I took care of that for you, beautiful.”

You force down the fire pinching at your nose and lining in your tongue, taking the paper and reading along the printed lyrics. Your chest starts to contract, lungs and heart pushing up against your ribs.

It’s a song about sex. You recognize it, you’ve heard it before, and it’s a song about sex. It’s not subtle or coded with innuendos. It’s just a song about sex. Plain and blatantly simple. And when you look up at Mikey, he’s smirking at your flushed expression.

“I don’t want to do this one,” you say, trying to sound docile and timid. You want to scream and burn, but that’s not an option. You need to play your hand, a naïve girl who is nervous to sing about sex.

“Bosses orders.” Mikey winks again. He should just sow his eye shut at this point. “We can put the lyrics on a teleprompter-“

“I know the song,” you shake your head, borderline frantic. “I just-“

“Of course you do, you little vixen.” Mikey looks you up and down again. “Oh, you’re going to kill it sweetheart. Just put some of that sweet honey on it.”

You don’t know what that means. You don’t get time to ask, though, because you’re herded further into the backstage area. You leave the mirror and makeup to stand behind a red curtain where you can hear applause and taunting laughter.

Mikey leaves your side for a heartbeat, and you hardly notice, too occupied fighting the coal-tasting fear in your mouth. He returns, ushering a large, bald man in an all-white suit along with him.

Mikey says your name twice, tone a little sharper the second time when the first only received a blank stare. “This is Mr. Great, he’ll be on piano for you.”

“Mr. Great?” You repeat, looking the newcomer up and down. His suit is somehow both too tight and too loose at once, he’s wearing round sunglasses that make him look like a dollar store Ray Charles, even as the high collar of his shirt and toothy smile give him an aura of Elton John.

“It’s my stage name, honey.” Mr. Great extends his hand, and when you shake it you feel almost inflated pride and grimy amusement. “You can call me Steve.”

You will not be calling him Steve.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Great,” you say his terrible alias kindly, an overly excited smile plastered on your face.

“Pleasures all mine,” Mr. Great says your name, the grime pulsing through his hand into you, and you hold down bile in your stomach. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”

Mikey’s tapping on his phone, glancing up as you pull your own hand from Mr. Greats grimy one. “All set, sweetheart?”

You nod. This is happening, now way out. Not as Mr. Great is smiling like a snake and Mikey is taking you in one last time. You still try, just one last time. “Are we sure I’m ready? You haven’t even heard me sing-“

“You’re ready,” Mikey dismisses. “And they,” you loathe the way he says that word, long and cold. “Don’t care how well you sing. You’ve already done the important part.”

“The important part?”

Mikey winks one last time, already turning away with a smirk. “Look like something they want.”

You watch him leave, giving a small start when you feel Mr. Great’s hand rubbing the small of your back.

“You’ll have them eating out of your hand, darlin.” He turns you around to face the velvet curtains. “Remember, it’s all in the hips and smile.”

“What does that-“ Mr. Great is gone before you can finish, ducking behind the far end of the curtain as applause sounds loudly from the other side. You really wish these people would stop talking in indecipherable and cryptic metaphors.

A blonde, curvy and full lipped woman opens the curtain before you, walking past you in a smooth strut that turns to a slouched, glowering stance once the audience is muffled once more.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you, pulling out a cigarette and addressing you wearily. “You new?”

You nod, words reduced to lumps in your throat.

“Good night to be new.” She hums thoughtfully. “Boss is here. Lots of good pickings for bidders. You a singer?”

“How did you know,” you manage to ask.

“Saw Steve. Good luck, new girl. Confidence is key.”

With that, she’s gone, and everything feels vile and sharp and bright.

You hear a voice that might be Candy, but cheerier and faster than you’d heard before, saying your name. Growing louder as wolf whistles and cheers start to sound.

Confidence is key. Hips and smile. Put sweet honey on it.

All the advice ringing in your head is pointless—this is going to hell and chaos no matter what kind of show you put on—but that doesn’t scratch the words from spinning through you.

The curtain opens to bright lights and shadow-cast bodies behind them. Candy’s gesturing you onto the stage, and your feet move of their own accord. She gives you a squeeze, gentle on your arm, and walks down stairs off the side, leaving you alone, elevated with a microphone and cold sweat in the spotlight.

You’re saved from trying to greet your audience, trying to find words that aren’t panicked or fearful by the first notes of the piano. It’s setting a rhythm—a little longer of an introduction than the song usually has—and you take the time to search the crowd. Tek Knight is watching in the back, behind a roped off, throne-like booth that he leans forward on. But your gaze is pulled away, because there is something you can feel, something angry that’s rioting against you. Something stone like watching you.

You lock eyes with Ben, his handsome face just barely visible from the back of the room, just before your cue hits, and you have to start the show.

The lyrics are pulled from your brain, sensual and explicit with flowing low notes that you force warm emotion into and belted high notes you make breathy. Time has become long, because the song is only vocals—no longer instrumental breaks—and you can’t control what’s happening. But you can’t look away from Ben either. It’s like his eyes are pulling you, removing you from your body to just watch your own show.

It starts almost deceptively simple. Hazy fairy lights floating through the room. Ocean-like mist against skin, everything smelling like pine trees and coffee and gunpowder. Gravity feels less powerful, the sky is opening up to stars and moons as everything is cast in a soft glow. And you still can’t look away from Ben, even as the room gasps, half-entranced and half-bemused. You can’t look away, not as the instrument accompaniment fills the room, drowning out Mr. Great’s piano but amplifying your voice. You can’t look away, not as the chorus hits and your singing seems to split into echoing harmonies, your body swaying in time with the music.

Then you’re yanked back into your body, because you feel someone behind you and when you turn—never missing a beat—it’s Ben. Not real Ben, still in the silently watching crowd. Fake Ben, smiling at you the way Real Ben would, eyes glimmering the way Real Ben’s do. Moving with you, hands on your hips and body pressed to yours. You can’t feel anything from him, no amusement or anger or desire, but you can’t stop. It’s like you’re under a spell, the rest of the world fading except for you, the imagined Ben before you, and the true Ben who you can still hauntingly feel.

The song starts to move too fast. Fire is spreading across the stage and you don’t know if it’s real or just another effect. Soft steam is rising, and the pine smell is growing stronger. You’re dancing with Fake Ben, his hands are tracing along your waist and resting on your hips and it feels so real. You reach up to touch his face—still holding the microphone in one hand—and even his smirk looks like Real Ben’s. His hands have all the same callous’ he moves the same way Real Ben does, and when he spins you—pressing your back to his chest—you can hear his heartbeat. It’s one second off from Real Ben’s.The song drops into a slower tempo, a rest before the finale, it’s all moving too fast away from you. Fake Ben falls to his knees, and when the high note comes he picks you up, spinning you around as the whole room becomes flooded with light. You feel high.

And you can still feel Real Ben.

In barely a second it’s over, and Fake Ben disappears into shining mist with the rest of the song. You’re in a dark club, alone on the stage, illuminated by the spotlight as the room hangs in silence.

The first person applauds, and everyone erupts. You look out into the crowd—you need to find Ben—and he’s right where he’d been before. His mouth is closed, stiller than a statue, and his shock and confusion and something hot and loud and powerful is coursing across the room into you. It’s his, you’re certain. It’s not yours, or Candy’s as she pulls you backstage, or Mr. Great’s as he claps your back. You know it’s Ben’s. You just do.

You’d bet the world on it. 

The blonde woman, Candy, and Mr. Great are all trying to talk to you, but you can’t hear them. They sound as if they’re speaking gibberish, and everything is so bright and you can’t feel anything but Ben. Almost on instinct you try to walk back onto the stage, to find Ben, but you barely push the curtain aside before Candy is yanking you back.

It’s enough though. All the world comes crashing back, violent and acidic, when—in those split seconds—you see it. 

Tek Knight is gone from his throne.

Like you’ve been re-animated, you turn to Candy, words harsh and fast. “I need to leave. Now. You need to pretend you’ve never met me, and get as far away from here as you can.”

“What was that, are you a supe?” Candy’s panicking, arms frantic.

“Yes. Kind of. Not really. I mean, Vought-” You stumble through the words quickly, shaking your head. “Look, there’s no time. You need to listen to me. You’re in danger.”

Candy yells your name. “You need to fucking explain-“

“I can’t. You need to go, get out, right fucking now, I can’t let more people die because of me-“

“Because of you?!” Candy’s voice is shrill, and you feel her panic as you try to herd her to the exit.

“You need to go, I’m so sorry, you need to-” You choke on the words when you see Mikey coming down the hall with anger in his eyes. You don’t look at Candy as you say “run”. 

Mikey barely has time to speak before you’re barreling past him, down the hall, trying to re-trace your step. Outside of your adrenaline consumed mind, you know going out onto the stage, where there was a crowd and you knew the team had been was the better idea. But all you can think is get away, far, far away. There’s no smoke filling your vision, everything feels frozen over in your body, so you just run.

You’re moving too fast to see the foot, stretched out to block your path.

Falling forwards, your hands don’t catch you on the ground before someone is grabbing your arm. You never hit the ground, being yanked back and pulled to the side. A door slams behind you, a white and flickering ceiling light turns on, and you’re in a storage room. Surrounded by dresses, costumes, feather fans, ribbons, and Tek Knight. Towering over you, hand still gripping your arm, pushing you back, back, back into a wall.

You try to burn him, but everything is so cold. All you can feel is your blood and his disgusting satisfaction. No matter how hard you try, you can’t feel any itch of flame below your skin. 

“It looks like I won the fucking lottery,” Tek Knight leers at you, arm pinned to your side, and says your name. Your full name. Your real, full name that’s carved into stone in Boston. “Sister Sage told me to look out for you, little girl. She was complaining about some sort of fucking security breach, told me to look for you.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir-“

Tek Knight’s laugh is a crude, over-enunciated cackle. “Don’t play stupid with me, Bitch. You’ve been giving me problems. I designed that fucking security system, and now Homelander and Sage won’t get off my ass about it-“

You drop any buttery, over-innocent persona. Jig is up, gloves off. “I thought your company designed that security system.” You sneer. “I read that fucking article about the lawsuit, asshole. All you did was take credit for someone’s work.”

“That scientist was a fucking liar,” Tek Knight hisses, slamming you back into wall, your head hitting concrete. “He was just jealous of me, because his wife wanted to sleep with me more than that blue-balled nerd.”

“I’m sure he was really jealous of your tiny dick,” you spit, almost relishing in the childish anger through Tek Knight’s body. “And your shit fucking business ideas. Did anyone even buy those Tek Knight phones, or did they see how it shrank your dick and-”

Tek Knight’s elbow presses into your throat, a too wide smile across his face as your words turn into a long wheeze. “I’m a genius,” he sneers. “I’m going to get the reward for finding you, giving you over to Homelander.” 

The fire is still gone, because the pain and fear and panic is freezing you alive. Biting into your brain and heart and lungs and limb to hold you down in place as Tek Knight taunts you.

“He’s going to beg me to join the Seven,” your eyes feel like icicles are moving through them. “I’ll kick that diversity hire bitch out,” your tongue feels numb in your mouth. “And while I’m at it, that fast boy out too,” you can’t move and everything is so heavy, something deep from the back of your head is trying to flee your body. “and I’m going to buy you, fucking own you, you weak fucking bitch-“

Tek Knight’s eyes grow wide, his grip becoming slack as his body locks up. You can’t feel him, you’re still filled with frost along your bones and mind. It feels bigger. Doubled, consuming, and never-ending. His arm is still against your air-pipe, leaning further into you as he loses balance. Something is moving behind you both, shouts and thumps and gunshots, but everything is just cold and your head feels like air.

The last thing you see before the world goes dark is Ben, pushing the door of the storage room open with a roar.

————

Butcher had noticed Tek Knight’s absence before Ben. The room was in a chaos, some rich pussies whining about being drugged, some trying to push backstage, most just fucking confused. But Ben was locked in his seat, rigid and reeling. He didn’t know what had just happened. She’d looked at him, and started singing—that same warm and clear voice that could move mountains and armies—and the whole world had unraveled. Lights and water and nature had taken over, and Ben had wondered if the French Prick had slipped him some sort of experimental psychedelic. Then he’d managed to see MM and Butcher from the corner of his eye, wearing matching shocked and spellbound expressions. 

It had felt like an enchantment had been cast over the room. Whatever trick She was pulling, those illusions she was somehow spinning felt so fucking real. Nobody could move, or look away from Her. And She wouldn’t look away from Ben.

The Thing had been so powerful—eating him and burning him and roaring in his chest—before it had even happened. Then the clone, an eerie fucking perfect replica of Ben, was at Her side. And dancing with her, and touching her, and she was looking at it the way she did in Ben’s fantasies, and the Thing became all Ben could feel. When she’d finished, all he needed to do was get to Her. His feet wouldn’t fucking move, he was locked in place, but Ben needed to fucking find Her.

“Frenchie says she ain’t backstage, and they can't find Tek Knight either.” Butcher’s words, loud over the mayhem of the room, finally sprang Ben into action. 

Danger, the Thing bellowed. She’s in danger.

He had pushed through the crowd, up onto the stage and through performers and club staff, ignoring MM and Butcher’s calls behind him. A guard had tried to stop him as he moved further, Ben had shoved him aside, and alarms had begun to go off. More guards had flooded the halls, gunshots going off around him, but Ben had just kept fucking moving. Looking for Her heartbeat, locking into it and following it to a closed, locked door labeled Performance Storage.

She’s falling, slumping against the wall with her eyes dropping just when Ben finally sees Her. Butcher and MM are still moving down the hall, Ben’s ripped the door off its hinges, and someone is shouting after him, but it doesn’t fucking matter. Not when he’s storming across the room, tossing a still-bodied Tek Knight to the side with little effort, and catching Her before she can hit the ground.

Ben held Her, cradling the back of her head as she remained limp against his chest. He’s half aware of Butcher and MM, now with the French Prick and Kimiko, entering the room. But he doesn’t look at them, the Thing becoming tighter in his chest the longer Her eyes stay closed. They should be open by now, they should’ve been open goddamn minutes ago. Why weren’t they fucking open, what if they didn’t fucking open. Ben could hear Her heart, but he couldn’t hear her breath. Where was her fucking breath. She can’t die, it’s not even a damn option on the table, so why couldn’t he hear her breath- 

Her body shook with a cough, and her eyes blinked open, meeting his. Her hands shoot up, one pressing into Ben’s chest as the other finds her throat, scraping along it in a clawed hand. Ben—still holding Her against him—drops his hold on her head, pulling her away from where she’s leaving quickly-fading red marks along her throat.

“Breathe,” he says Her name in a low but firm voice, twice when Her head shakes frantically. “You’re fine, it’s okay, breathe.”

She makes a choked sound. “Can’t- He said- reward-“

“You’re okay,” Ben brushes the hair clinging to her sweat-drenched forehead. “I’m right fucking here, nothing’s going to happen. I just need you to fucking breathe.”

She nodded, and though there were tears in her eyes and her breaths were still weak, but Her heart grew to an even rhythm as Ben rubbed small circles where he held her hand. He was aware of the movement behind him, MM and Kimiko dragging Tek Knight up from where Ben had thrown him, the French Prick rummaging through bins to find something to tie the asshole up. Butcher, moving behind Ben and saying Her name, cold and harsh.

“Care to explain what the fucking hell that was.” He growled, and Ben pulled Her up, holding her steady and they turned to face Butcher. 

“Now’s not the fucking time-“ Ben started to sneer at Butcher, but She squeezed his arm around her and shook her head slightly.

“It’s okay, I need to-“ another long breath, Her heart still slightly erratic as she spoke softly, the words vomiting out of Her. “It’s the third shot of V. Sensory manipulation. It only happens when I sing, and-“

“I’ve fucking heard you sing, Love,” Butcher snapped. “That shit didn’t-“

“You have to be in a certain range for it to work, I don’t know. I think it’s like a pheromone or something, I can’t control it, I didn’t think Homelander even knew about it, but he,” She pointed a shaky finger at Tek Knight. “Said that Sage was telling him to look for me.”

“Look for you?” MM looked up from where he stood, keeping gun pointed at Tek Knight’s unconscious head. “Why did they think you’d be here?”

“Security breach,” She looked nervously at Tek Knight, and Ben felt her body press closer to his own. “Sage must have seen that you got those records.”

“Well, he’ll tell us the whole bloody story when he wakes up, won’t he?” Butcher turned to the French Prick. “He ain’t dead, right? That’d be fucking annoying.” 

The French Prick looked up from where he was examining Tek Knight’s body, shaking his head with a frown. “He should wake up soonish, I do not see any burns or physical damage.”

Just then, a weak, pathetic groan escaped Tek Knight, and his eyes slowly opened. His eyes found Her first, his face twisting into a half-afraid, half-furious expression.

“What the fuck did you do to me, you fucking bitch.” His voice was hoarse, but filled with wrath. “How dare you lay a fucking hand on me-“

“I’d calm the hell down, Motherfucker.” MM pressed the gun into Tek Knight’s temple. “You don’t have any sort of upper hand right now.”

Even as the pussy falls silent, Tek Knight didn’ take his glare off Her, and Ben held her a little tighter.

“Good bloody work, Mate.” Butcher taunted, taking a step closer and bending down Tek Knight’s eye level. “Followin orders like a good little cunt.”

“Fuck you,” Tek Knight spat into Butcher’s eyes. “This is fucking bullshit, don’t you know who I am-“

“We know exactly who you are,” MM snapped. “And we’ve got some questions for you.”

“I’m not telling you fucking shit-“

“See, we ain’t asking.” Butcher gave a crude smirk. “You recognize him?” Tek Knight followed Butcher pointing finger to Ben, and his face fell pale as Butcher continued. “One word from us, and he flattens you like a pancake.” 

“Soldier Boy doesn’t fucking scare me,” his voice was shaky, and Ben just watched him coldly.

“You sure?” Butcher said, brows raised mockingly. “Cause from where I’m sat, it looks like you might be pissin yourself a little, Mate.”

“What do you want? Money?” Tek Knight looked around the room, voice growing higher. “I can give you fucking money. I can give you whatever the fuck you want.”

“We want answers,” MM clicked the safety off, and Tek Knight flinched. “And you’re going to give them to us. First off,” MM angled the gun to leave a mark on Tek Knight’s temple, pointing at Her, still silent against Ben’s side. “What do you know about the Anomaly?”

“I’m not telling you shit-“

“Yeah, yeah.” Butcher rolled his eyes. “Save us the whining and answer the fucking question.”

Tek Knight shook his head. “I don’t know what hell you’re talking about.”

“You said you knew about me,” She said, voice unsteady but loud. “You said you were going to turn me over to Homelander.”

“She’s making that shit up, trying to turn you against me.” Tek Knight snapped. “I never said any of that.”

“No, she’s not.” Ben growled, and Tek Knight scoffed.

“You really fucking believe this bitch? After all her fucking lies?” He laughed as Ben felt Her shrink backwards, heartbeat picking up pace once more. “That’s right, sweetheart. I know fucking everything. I know about all your little whore powers. I figured it out, your brain manipulation. Homelander came to me, begging for help, and I saw all the clues on the cam footage.”

“Cam footage?” MM snapped, and Tek Knight fell silent at his slip. “What fucking cam footage?”

“I told you, I’m not telling you fucking shit-“

“And we told you,” Ben hissed. “We’re not fucking asking.” He didn’t let Her go, letting her continue to lean against him as he threatened Tek Knight. “You tell us what you know, right fucking now, or I’ll break your pussy brain in half.”

“I don’t know anything-“

The French Prick snorted. “You just admitted you ‘figured it out’, no?”

“It was Sage, not me,” Tek Knight said frantically, folding in half like a fucking house of cards. “I don’t know anything, I’m a scapegoat, it’s a fucking witch hunt-“

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” MM muttered. “Answer the goddamn question.”

“I don’t know anything, they don’t tell me shit, I just help Homelander when he asks-“

“Help him with what?” Butcher snapped. “We want fucking specifics.”

“I dunno!” Ben could smell Tek Knight’s fucking sweat, coming in damn buckets. “He wants guards, I get him guards! Money, I get money! You would too, the dude is fucking terrifying. Insane!”

“Yeah, we’ve figured that out,” MM said dryly. “You keep a record of this shit?”

Tek Knight shook his head. “It’s all off the book. He doesn’t pay me, but I’m on the shortlist for the Seven-“

“Jesus bloody Christ,” Butcher gave a scornful laugh. “Your head is all the way up Homelander’s puckered ass, ain’t it?” 

“He’s going to fucking kill me,” Tek Knight was panicking, moving like a damn bobble-head. “I shouldn’t have told you anything, he’s going to kill me-“

“What about that cam footage?” MM asked. “The fuck was that about?”

“It’s gone, Sage erased it after the breach. Holy fuck, this and the breach, I’m fucking dead.” Tek Knight look around at them, desperate and fucking snot-nosed. “You have to help me, he’s going to kill me, I shouldn’t have fucking called him-“

“Called him?” MM glanced up at Butcher as he spoke, and She went rigid at Ben’s side. “The hell you mean, called him?”

“Homelander’s fucking coming, I told him about her,” his nods were aimed in Her direction, and her heart was moving so fast Ben thought it might explode. “And he’s going to kill all of us, you have to untie me, right now, please-“ 

“Nah, I think we’re good,” Butcher shrugged as he pulled out a gun, and Tek Knight’s eyes barely had time to widen before the shot went off. 

“Butcher!” Tek Knight slumped forward into MM’s gun, and MM gave Butcher a pissed scowl. “The fuck was that, we weren’t done-“

“Yeah, we were.” Butcher was turning away, watching the door with sharp eyes. “This was a shit fuckin dead end, and now we’re right back where we damn started.”

She let out a strangled gasp, and started tugging at Ben with hushed, frantic words. “He said Homelander-“ Her nails were pushing into his arm, but he just held her steady. “Homelander’s coming, he’s coming-“ 

“We heard him.” Butcher’s eyes didn’t leave the door as he loaded his gun. “Frenchie, look for any weapons that cunt might have, MM, tell Hughie to get the van ready, we have to move fast.”

The door burst open, and MM fired right at Starlight who had jumped in front of Cocksucker at the last second. 

“Oh shit!” Cocksucker yelled, catching Starlight as she stumbled backwards. “It’s us, it’s just us!” 

“Homelander,” Starlight’s breath was heavy, coughing as she spoke. “He’s here, just landed at the stage.” 

“Did he see you?” Butcher demanded, catching the rounds the French Prick was tossing to him.

Cocksucker shook his head. “I don’t think so, I mean he didn’t try to laser us so that’s a good sign, but it’s all I have to go off-“

“Kid,” MM said sternly. “Not the time for rambling. Did he see you, yes or no.”

“No?”

He on his way?”

“Probably?”

“Shit,” MM exchanged another look with Butcher. “The halls won’t be safe. There got to be a back exit-“

“That's how we got in,” Butcher grunted. “It’s our best fucking bet. Kimiko and Soldier Boy will have to lead-“

“The fuck I’m leading,” Ben interrupted Butcher with a glower, gesturing to Her. “She can’t fucking walk-“

“She’s gonna have to,” MM’s voice was apologetic as he said her name, and Ben didn’t give a shit. “She’s an adult, she’ll be fine. Butcher-“

Ben tuned out the continuing arguments and planning as he looked down at Her, with hands fisted on his sleeve and legs shaking. The strangled sounds had died from her throat minutes ago, and all she seemed to do was stare at the door with terror, breaths coming jagged and short. He said her name lowly, and she didn’t even flinch.

“We need to run,” he said Her name again. “I need you to fucking run.”

All he got in response was a shaking head.

Ben stalked over to the French Prick, holding Her slightly off the ground to move with him. “Give me a fucking gun.”

“Not in goddamn hell,” MM answered before the French Prick could.

Ben spat his words at no one in particular. “I’m only taking the lead if you give me a fucking gun.”

“Give it to him, Frenchie.” Butcher’s order was brisk as he looked Ben up and down, eyes resting on where She still clung to his side.

“Monsieur Butcher-“

“Now.” Butcher snapped, turning to face the hall.

“Butcher are you fucking insane-“

“We don’t have time for bloody useless arguments, MM, we’ve got to go, right fucking now.”

Ben snatched the gun offered weakly by the French Prick, not sparing him a fucking glance. As he lowered one arm to hold Her up—wrapping fully around her waist—Ben dropped his voice so only she could hear as he began to load his gun.

“I’m going to pick you up,” he grunted. “Because you can’t fucking run right now, and I’m not leaving you. Got it?” When she was only silent, Ben angled her face to his. “Sunshine, I need to you to nod. I’ve fucking got you, understood?” 

“Ben-“ Her voice was weak, tired, afraid. The Thing was stilled from rage in a second, needing to make it better. “I’m-“

“You’re going to be fine.” He hissed. “I swear on my goddamn life.”

With that, Ben tossed her over his shoulder like a perfect, beautiful, fear-frozen sack of fucking potatoes and walked to the door as she grew slack against him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Soldier Boy,” MM grabbed his arm as they passed each other. “If you screw us, motherfucker-“

Ben yanked his arm away. “This is two way road, you fucking got that? If you pussies screw us,” Ben didn’t have to gesture to Her for MM’s eyes to glance between them. “You’re going to wish Homelander had killed you.” He turned to where Starlight stood at the door. “Now are we fucking ready?” 

“Whenever you are, Gov,” Butcher drawled, falling into his place in their shit formation at Cocksucker’s side. 

Ben paused for a half second, making sure She was secure around him, before walking—gun raised and braced for oncoming fire—into the hall. 

It was quiet. Too fucking quiet. The only heartbeats Ben could hear were Hers and the Pussy-Brigades behind him. Kimiko was keeping pace with Ben’s long, fast steps, and he didn’t miss the quick, worried looks she kept giving Her. She was still unmoving, breath almost mechanically steady, and smoke had begun to rise from her body. It didn’t cloud Ben’s vision, and She’d only grown warm without flame, so Ben kept fucking moving. They were so goddamn close to being out, and everywhere was still so fucking empty. Through the door, down the creepy as shit hallway. Up the stairs, into the still abandoned alleyway. The team filtered after him, weapons not lowering for a second. The door slammed behind MM and Starlight at the rear, and—in a vigilant silence—they loaded into the van. She didn’t let go of Ben as he sat against the wall, engine rumbling to life, and he didn’t try to make her. 

Something was wrong, this was too fucking easy. The Thing, still fully focused on Her, felt wired, on edge, like she might vanish from Ben’s hands. She still hadn’t spoken, and as Ben lowered her into his lap she moved her grip to the collar of his shirt. They were getting further and further away, but something still felt fucking off. Ben didn’t fucking trust it, some sort of other shoe was just waiting to fucking drop-

Her hands raised to Ben’s face, a frantic sound escaping her as she lowered his eyes to meet hers. “Ben-“ Her voice was barely audible, and Ben leaned forward until they were almost sharing a breath. “Something’s wrong.” 

“I know, Sunshine-“

“No, no, you-“ She tugged Ben closer in a tiny movement, hands pulling at his hair. “My phone, I left my phone-“

“Where.”

“The dressing room, before it happened, I forgot it, Ben I forgot it-“

She froze, head whipping towards the front of the van as a ring sounded through the van. 

“Hughie,” Butcher grunted, cocking his head towards where his phone rested on the console. “Get that, will you?”

“No,” She whispered as Cocksucker grabbed Butcher’s phone, frowning at the screen. “Ben, you have to-“

Cocksucker said Her name, glancing back at her and Ben. “It looks like you’re calling me?”

She gave a small, desperate sound, shaking her head. 

“She lost her phone,” Ben snapped at Cocksucker, wrapping Her hands into his own as they began to smoke against his head. “Left it back at that shit hole.” 

“Answer it, Lad.” Butcher ordered, and Ben pulled Her hands to rest between their bodies and she began to shake.

“No, no, Hughie don’t-“ 

Cocksucker put the phone to his ear, eyes darting around the van. “Hello?” 

“Hughie Campbell! What are you doing with William’s phone, hm?” 

Homelander’s pathetically fucking cheery voice was muffled through the phone. Ben tried to keep his face stoned and neutral—he wanted to see what Cocksucker would do—but She wrung her hands, still held between his. 

“What’s he saying? Ben.” Her voice was rising, and the Thing grew bloody with her panic. “Please, Ben, what-“ 

“Who is it,” Butcher muttered to Cocksucker, who had gone slack-jawed and pale. “Hughie,” Butcher glanced off the road with a frown. “Who’s on the fucking phone?”

“Go on, Hughie.” Homelander encouraged mockingly. “Answer the man, don’t let our conversation stop you.”

“It’s him,” Cocksucker’s voice was unsteady, and Ben heard a cold laugh through the phone. “Homelander.”

“Are you fucking serious?” MM hissed. “Kid, that’s not funny-“

 “Put me on speaker!” Homelander’s voice was manic. “Let me talk to the gang!” 

Cocksucker dropped the phone from his ear, hand shaking as Homelander’s voice grew louder through the speaker. 

“Is everyone here? Obviously Hughie, listening to orders so well as always. William, I heard you, you rascal, too big to pick up the phone, huh?” 

“Nah, just can’t be fucked, cunt.” Butcher drawled, even as Ben could hear the race of his heart and see his scowl in the rearview mirror. 

“Delightful as always. Who else, hm,” the van hung in silence as Homelander paused in fake thought. “Starlight, probably, she and Hughie are attached by Campbell’s dick. I think I heard Marvin, and of course I wouldn’t be able hear the fucking mute. She there too?”

“What do you want, Homelander?” Starlight called from across the van. “What’s your angle?”

“I’m wounded, Starlight. Can’t I call to catch up with old friends?”

“We ain’t friends, and if we were you’d know to text,” Butcher’s hands were white on the wheel. “Answer her bloody question.”

There was a silence, the line only humming static, before, Her name was said, tight and crude in Homelander’s voice. “Is she there? I know she was here, I found her phone,” Homelander laughed. “But you know that!”

“We’re not telling you shit-“

“Oh, don’t be like that, William. It’s an innocent question. It’s not like I’m asking who leaked those records to you, or which of you killed Tek Knight!” Homelander clicked his tongue. “Unbelievably annoying, by the way. Now I’m going to have to give a fucking press statement about it.”

Butcher’s lip was curled into a sneer. “How fuckin tragic for you.” 

“Thank you! You know, nobody ever thanks me for that, but it’s hard work! I’m going to have to say so much nice shit about this asshole, you have no idea. Now, stop trying to distract me, and answer my question.” Homelander’s voice dropped in a cruel, cold tone. “Is she fucking there?”

She was searing a hole into Ben’s shirt as she pressed further into him, all eyes falling to them. Ben held their gazes firmly, letting every bit of rage for Her in his body, from the Thing, fill his face. If one of them, any fucking one of these pussies, said a goddamn word, he’d rip their spines out.

“What about Soldier Boy?” Homelander asked, and Her face shot up from Ben’s chest to meet his eyes, her hands shaking in his. “I heard a lot of people saying their last words about him. Is he there?”

More silence. 

“If one of you doesn’t speak-“

“Homelander, we’re not going to answer your question,” Starlight snapped, and Ben respected her for the first time. “So tell us what you want.” 

“Can she hear me? If she’s there can she hear me-“ 

“Talk, cunt.” Butcher grunted, and Homelander gave a dramatic fucking pussy sigh. 

“I just wanted to tell you that I missed you this time, but I’m fucking onto you. Flipping my employees, stealing my property, trying to fuck me over-“

“You call just to whine, Twat?” Butcher cut Homelander off with a sneer. “Or is there fucking point.”

“Patience is a virtue, William.” Homelander gave a tsk. “And I want to make sure that you don’t think you’re ahead. I don’t know what your plan is, but it won’t work. I’m invincible. I’ll find the leak and plug it, I’ll figure out what you're doing and stop it, because I always win.” 

Butcher snatched the phone from Cocksucker’s hand, hissing into it. “That it?”

“Patience.” Homelander growled Her name, and the Thing became molten fury in Ben. “I don’t know if you’re there, because these weak, unworthy ants won’t fucking tell me. But I want you to know that, when you come home, which you will because I will find you, I can’t wait to hear you sing again. I can’t believe you hid what V did, it’s amazing, powerful, god-like, but I forgive you. I won’t lie, I’m wounded that you didn’t trust me, but I forgive you. And I’ll see you, all of you, soon.” 

The line clicked dead, and She went limp in Ben’s arms. Nobody spoke, they wouldn’t fucking dare, and Ben just held her. The Thing wanted Her closer, even with their skin pressed together, their air the same, and their hearts in time with each other. But Ben needed to be fucking mad at her. She’d had another secret, she’d had chances to tell him, everything he knew, everything he understood told Ben he needed to be mad at her. But the fear in Her eyes was imprinted on his brain, and the sound of her pleading his name, looking to him for comfort, would ring in his ears until she laughed again.

Ben should be fucking mad at Her, but Ben and the Thing were hardly even separated anymore, not when She was so close. Not when She mattered like this. Not when She was choosing to stay right here with him. Not when She, for some stupid fucking reason, kept choosing to hang to Ben’s side.

He had to be mad at Her, to find it in him some fucking where, but the performance was echoing in his head, feeding the Thing. Ben gave up—for now—trying to find reason with it or what it meant. What he meant to Her. Because She was shaking against him, and he was keeping her secure in his arms. And She wasn’t trying to run or fight, so Ben wouldn’t either. It was just them, even in the cold silence of the van. 

It was just them, so Ben stayed right there with Her.

Thank you for reading!

Always leave a comment if you want to! They feed me, and y’all are funnier than me <3

End Note: Not to trash on my source material, but my version of Tek Knight is better and more interesting and makes me want to vomit less. Eric Kripke, you will pay for your crimes against my son, Hughie Campbell.

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk @artemys-ackles, @a-cup-of-nightshade, @bitchykittenconnoisseur

@fghj18 @n-o-p-e-never @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @marisha-3 @stvrniolo

[eelnoise]

you, me, us.

zoro x afab!reader c/w: fluff, oral sex (f receiving), missionary piv sex, creampie, just lovey zoro cuz im obsessed! a/n: so part 3 of this soft zoro arc huh? here we are ig. i love zoro sm that is all p1 p2

"Let's sleep in," He whispers, breath tickling your neck. "Not ready to let you go just yet."

Zoro's hand trails up your back, lips leaving gentle kisses down your jawline. You hum softly, the sound feeding his indigent arousal. He isn't about to leave the bed any time soon, not when your ever-alluring presence blankets him in warmth. As you both lie there, curled in on each other, bodies bound in a close embrace, Zoro's heartbeat seems to slow yet simultaneously thump against his chest in longing for your touch. Longing for your love.

Your arms snake around his shoulders, giggling as his lips lightly tickle the sensitive skin of your neck. "Zoro~" You coo playfully, breath growing heavier. A soft gasp flows from you as his tongue slips out to taste your tender flesh. Zoro leaves a mix of wet laps and open-mouthed kisses down your body, nipping just slightly with his teeth as his dips his head toward your collarbone.

A chuckle vibrates against you in reply, sending a jolt through your senses. The sensation sends shivers throughout your entire being, causing a delicious tension to begin building within your core. Your legs wrap themselves around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer into you. With every nuzzle and caress, Zoro's desire only intensifies; he can feel himself growing harder by the second underneath the thin layer of sheets.

As he moves lower still, taking his time to explore every single inch of your body with his lips and tongue, you can't help but moan softly at the attention being lavished upon you. He tastes along your skin, reveling in your flavor as his hand moves up your stomach, coming to rest on your chest. Zoro's palm cups one of your breasts, rough and calloused, yet ever gentle as he moves it in circular motions.

The swordsman is careful. His motions are slow, they're precise, and they're loving. Zoro means to enjoy this, to enjoy you, and to delight in the intimacy. You exhale, eyes closing with a satisfied expression etched across your cheeks.

Zoro's grip around you tightens, his hand moving in small strokes across your skin. He leans toward you, lips brushing against one another. Zoro doesn't hesitate - his tongue finds it's way into your mouth passionately. His wide hand presses on your body, nails digging just barely into your skin as he relishes in touching you.

You moan as his tongue dances with yours, reveling in the moment of passion between you both. One of your hands slowly sneaks its way down his chest, fingers brushing against him with serene means. The kiss grows sloppier by the second, lips locking together and turning wet and messy.

The goosebumps along your skin has his mind reeling - lost in your very being. He loves you. He loves you so fucking much. Zoro would slice mountains in half for you, tear islands into islets with his bare hands, cut anyone or anything down in his path if it meant keeping you safe and happy.

Keeping you his.

Zoro pushes himself into the kiss, the taste of you driving him absolutely wild. His fingers run through your hair, soft tresses feeling like satin sliding through his fingers. He explores your body, and with quick reflexes, turns you over onto your back before pushing you down into the mattress. The kiss grows even more desperate as he hovers above you, hand gliding carefully down and settling between your legs. Zoro's breath is heavy, and you can feel it on your face, chest heaving as he presses it to yours - a feeling of wanton desire and desperate need within him.

You moan into his mouth as he strokes one finger along your already damp folds, wet slick coating the fabric of your panties. The kiss breaks, a long stand of saliva connecting you together before snapping as he pulls away. You smile between bruised, love-swollen lips, a heavy-lidded gaze locked onto his with no intention of looking away.

He finds you so beautiful like this, and he means to show you just how he feels. Zoro's hand moves from your hip to the hem of your nightgown, sliding it upward until it rests at the base of your spine. He watches you for a moment, taking in the sight of your soft, bare, almost angelic skin before him.

The anticipation is nearly unbearable.

With a swift motion, Zoro pulls the garment up and over your shoulders, exposing you completely. Your breasts bounce free, full and round, perfectly formed mounds that beckon to be touched. He smirks up at you, still looking tired but something in his expression shows more, a twinkle of affection shining in the single, slate-gray eye gracing your body.

Before you can process it, he leans forward to take one of your breasts into his mouth, sucking hard on your sensitive nipple. "Fuck, baby," You whimper, back arching at the sudden sensation. Lightning strikes your veins, further igniting the ever-present love, and now lust, for him. Each sound you make reverberates in his ears, doing little to quell the fire flowing within him.

Zoro can be harsh, he can be rough, and he's anything but a romantic; but here, with your warmth beneath him, he finds himself tame. You're small, delicate in comparison to himself, and this morning he intends to treat you softly, to treat you right.

Something about you grounds him. Anchors him in place to stall away any spiraling cogitation that beats in his mind. Zoro thinks himself broken, cast away from heaven's gates and thrown into a cruel, ungrateful, and often terrifying world.

You had stoked the nascent flame within him, two souls dancing afire and forever tethered to one another. He cherishes that you're always there to remind him that he's alive. That he's worthy to love and be loved in return unconditionally.

Zoro's fingers trail down your stomach, stopping briefly at your navel before continuing lower. He pushes your thighs apart, spreading your legs wide and exposing your most vulnerable area to him. He slides your panties to the side, freeing your aching core to the light of the cabin. The scent of arousal fills his nostrils, thick and heavy like a fog.

He lowers his face toward your pussy and you gasp as his breath hits your weeping slit, body tensing in alacrity. He looks upon you - all of you - before placing a gentle kiss to your clit. Your taste is sweet and musky, and it sends shivers down his spine.

Zoro hums into you as your eyes meet. The sight of him buried between your thighs elicits a long, absolutely salacious moan from the depths of your throat, quickly muffled by a hand to your mouth - careful not to draw any unwanted attention if anyone happened to be walking by on their way to start the day.

You're putty beneath him. Completely bent to his will while his large, thick hands hold your hips with just enough pressure to keep you from squirming. "S'fucking good," He whispers, pulling his lips from you for just a moment before latching them onto your swollen clit once more.

He explores your pussy, lapping up and down the sensitive flesh and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud with expert precision. Zoro can feel your body trembling beneath his grasp, breath coming out in short gasps as you struggle to keep quiet. The thought of making you cum sends a surge of desire through him, and he redoubles his efforts to take you to the precipice.

Zoro isn't a wizard, but he's working magic upon you. Spellbound to him as he enchants you with his hands that begin to roam freely over your body, running along your curves and caressing your skin whenever they find an opportunity. He traces patterns into your abdomen and thighs with his fingertips, leaving and icy-hot trail of fire in their wake.

Your skin is so soft under his touch, and it's almost too much for him. Zoro has to fight away the urge, to bite back the greed encompassing him to take you for himself right now. Each whimper, each whine, each shudder and twitch from his charity on your flesh makes his cock twitch needily against the mattress. It's almost painful, but his focus is entirely on you - to shower you with as much pleasure as he can give. Each lap of his tongue or suck of his lips work as a silent, wordless proclamation of his love.

Zoro continues to lavish attention to your cunt, feeling you write and tremble as your high reaches ever closer. "I'm gonna-" You murmur from behind the hand enclosed around your mouth. "D-don't st-"

You rolls your hips against his face, the words dying on your tongue as a string of half-muffled moans rise in volume to that all-familiar swell from within the pits of your stomach threatening to boil over into euphoria. Zoro knows. He always knows when you're close, giving your hip a squeeze in acknowledgment of your impending release.

He pulls away from your folds, quickly replacing his hips with thick fingers that rub your clit at a pace that has you seeing stars. "Cum f'me," He growls, voice low and gravelly. His piercing eye shoots through you like an arrow laced with sentiment, and with it comes sweet relief. Your back arches beautifully, his name falling from your tongue as pleasure overtakes you.

Zoro watches intently as you cum, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over him. He loves to see you come undone, and it's even better knowing that he's the cause of it.

As your orgasm subsides, Zoro looks up at you with a lazy smile on his face. "You're incredible," He says softly, voice filled with admiration as he leans his head affectionately onto your inner thigh.

Zoro slides up your body, both hands coming to rest on either side of your head as his slick-glossed lips take yours in a tender, sweet kiss. The tip of his sizable, leaky cock brushes against your sensitive clit and you hiss in overstimulation. He smirks against your lips, rolling his hips into you and seeking those pretty sounds that only you can make for him.

His kiss turns from tender to passionate, tongue exploring your mouth as his hips move in a slow rhythm. He feels your wetness and his precum seeping through his boxers, and he knows that he can't hold out much longer.

Finally, unable to resist, Zoro thrusts deep into you with one powerful stroke. You wail against his lips, legs coming up to wrap around his waist as your walls grip him tightly. He moans softly, his pace slow and delicate.

Zoro moves slowly and methodically, savoring every moment between you. He feels a sense of peace and contentment as he makes love to you, knowing now, after so long, that this is where he belongs - with you.

Four hands roam along flesh, stroking, caressing, just feeling the powerful tether that attaches you to one another. He wants for naught that any amount of berry can buy, as you are all he wants - the river of wealth you provide never running dry. All he needs. Zoro wants to give his all to you, to protect you, to cherish you. And within your warm embrace, he finds peace.

Your inner walls flutter deliciously around him and he can't take much more. His movement becomes more intense as he loses control, his hips moving faster and faster as he nears his own climax. He feels your body tighten around him, clutching him to you as if letting him go would be agonizing.

With a final burst of energy and a groan of your name, Zoro reaches his peak, filling your womb with hot, sticky seed and painting your insides white. He collapses onto you, heart pounding in his chest as he catches his breath.

You wince at the sudden weight atop you, but you settle in quickly and wrap your arms around him as best you can. The morning light washes over you, bodies entangled together once again, cradling one another as you recover. Zoro nestles his head into the crook of your neck, lips gently touching your skin as he squeezes you tightly against him.

He holds you firmly, feeling a sense of fulfillment wash over him. These moments are special, even if ephemeral, yet he cherishes every second of it. And as you lay there in each other's arms, Zoro thinks about how lucky he is, to have his soul laid bare before you so honestly, and you accept him. No matter how foul or fair he is, you love him. Wholly and truly.

You want to share this life with him, and he's grateful for it.

"Love you," He whispers into your neck, and you swear you can hear him choke a little on the words. "Love you s'much."

[starryharps]

wildflowers

pairing: rhaegar targaryen/ reader

summary: they fuck in a forest, what more do you want

word count: 1,509

tags: smut. fluff

read on ao3 | masterlist

The brook’s tattering breaks your mid-afternoon daze, with the sunlight chiding your vision as you sit quietly under the impossibly huge tree.

Rhaegar is picking flowers nearby, his harp resting against the bark of another tree. Beautiful thing, it is, to watch him strum those strings, how nimble his fingers look as they dance across the harp, how it plucks and pulls, and-

Gods. Your ears flush red.

What a sinful thought.

You bring your knees together, resting your head over the heavy robes.

For another day.

You hear Rhaegar’s boots become louder and louder, padding gently across the grass before he sits next to you.

Wildflowers. He bought wildflowers.

“Quite a collection,” you remarked.

He hummed, holding some of them in his hands. White, yellow, green, all beautiful and dainty small things.

“Do you know, you can make tea from them.”  he starts, “read it in a maester’s scrolls.”

“You can make tea from almost any flower or leaf if you dry and roast them enough.”

He gazes at you, unimpressed.

“Smartass.”

You chuckled, “logic.”

The prince watches you pick the pennyroyals up.

“Intriguing, you found these here.” You remark.

“Figured you’d appreciate the selection, for you keep collecting flowers.” Referring to your apothecary.

“Oh, so it is not for making flower crowns?”

“I do not know how to make them.”

“Why not?”

Confusion colors him, “What do you mean why not?”

“You’re bookish to a fault, thought you’d know how to make flower crowns to charm ladies.”

“I do not read such books.”

“Explain me tales of the wench and the sailor on your shelf then?”

He sputters, looking away.

“That was a gift.”

“Certain. Boys and their collection of literary erotica they swear to the seven they have never read, but forget to take out the glaring red bookmark.”

He calls out your name, indigant.

“This is unladylike.”

“I thought we dropped court formalities when we entered these forests.”

“This conversation has turned indecent.” Rhaegar quickly picks up the harp, playing it, you notice the heat on his cheeks and smirk.

He pretends to not notice you crawl slightly towards him, playing his harp.

“What crown prince would ever be caught reading naughty tales of a wench covered in flowers,”

Rhaegar’s hand shakes, and the harp’s tune wavers. You reach his shoulder and slightly move the long hair behind his ear as you whisper.

“as she gets deflowered by a dashing Essosi sailor-“

His breath hitches.

“How unbecoming of a noble to read such a debauched work.”

“Y-you.”

His indigo eyes are so beautiful as they lace in fear and arousal.

“Tell me, which one did you imagine yourself as? The sailor?” You hook your finger on the collar of his tunic.

Rhaegar shakes quietly, his harp sounding like a cacophony of nerves. You admire the small braids in his hair. He’s inlaid them with ruby pins.

“Or perhaps, the wench?” You whisper, putting his harp away.

He starts, your name, leaving his lips as he sighs.

You crawl on top of him, straddling his lap, smiling sweetly.

“Hmm?”

You don’t wait for him to reply, tilting your head to meet your lips against his plush ones.

Rhaegar is on fire. you are certain, His blood heats up at your touch as you sense him descend further and further into the kiss. He’s so open, desperate, and wanting. His red and black robes bristle and rustle against the grass as he moans out and squirms. You press down further as his hands find your waist.

He’s a sight, red flushed against his pale skin, indigo eyes staring at you, mesmerized, and glossy-lipped. The forest behind him. From this angle, he looks every bit of a wench from the novels you have seen him read in his chambers in privacy.

You rock your hips, and he groans. The fabric creates a barrier that somehow intensifies the pleasure rather than inhibiting it.

“You even moan like one.” You open button down his tunic and toss out his robes. The sunlight kissing his pale skin, you watch the flush travel to his lithe chest.

Hands travel down his naked body, your digits toying with his nipples. They look so supple, hard, and slightly puffed. A wicked idea takes over you.

“How does it feel?” gently squeezing his nipple.

Rhaegar throws his head back. “Tickles.”

“Ah,t.” He groans as you rub circles gently with both of your hands on each nipple.

He bucks his hips up.

“Ah…”

“Sensitive?’

He moans.

“Want me to continue?”

He stutters out a barely coherent,��please.

You take him in your mouth. The foreign feel of his soft, round nipples gives you pleasure as you suckle them, quietly flicking.

Rhaegar has stilled, only gasps of his breath reverberate in the forest.

You stay attacking his chest, languid as your tongue latches on him, messy and mean in its sucking. Payback for what he does to you.

His hand reaches your back, digging into your hips as he mewls loudly, unable to stop as you rock your hips against his while playing with his chest.

“Please, please.” His repeats your name like a prayer. Bucking his hips up like an animal in heat.

“If you had a cunt and a womb, I promise you, you would’ve never walked a day without it being swollen.” Rhaegar nods, fervent.

“N-never, I would-“

“Do you wish it?” Your movements become quicker, the squelching noises sending pleasure down your spine.

“I do, gods, I would carry, I would-“

“How many?”

“As many- until I”

“Until your feet hurt and you stay debauched, swollen, and needy for me, every night?”

You see tears prick rhaegar’s eyes, he’s close.

“I’d never let you touch the moon tea. Ever.”

“N-never.”  He groans as you halt your movement.

“Off.” You command, referencing his breeches.

He complies quickly, sitting up to kiss you as his cock springs out.

You smirk at the length, the rosy color making it look almost endearing.

“Might wear robes of this color tomorrow.”

Despite his arousal, rhaegar manages to smile.

“I’d be most pleased to see it.”

Touching his chin, “filthy.” You remark.

“Let me touch you.”

“Not today.”

Rhaegar frowns.

“Why?”

“Today I wish to ride.”

He gasps as you toss him down to the grass. His naked body, covered his bruises, shivering slightly at the contact.

“Then so be it.” He whispers to no one.

You quickly rid yourself of your small clothes, making sure you remain nude as well, and straddle him, sinking down and groaning, both of you turning blank at the pleasure that overtakes.

“Fucking hell.”

“Move....” Rhaegar has his hand over his eyes, his other hand between his lips, he’s red like a cherry, and the sun makes the sweat on his body shimmer like gold as he shakes and quivers with every move you make on top of him.

You grab both of his hands and place it next to his head, lacing your fingers together as you tilt towards him, your breasts swollen and stopping just by his lips.

“Suck.” You instruct, and descend your breast into his mouth. Eyes rolling back at the heat that engulfs your nipple, your movements turning animalistic.

Heaven was so hot it felt like the flames of hell. As if the fourteen flames have bloomed within you. The heat of the sun, his mouth, his cock, your cunt. The sweet music of your moans intermixing, it was too much, too fucking much.

Your knees buckled after a few moments and Rhaegar sat up immediately, holding you and kissing you mercilessly as you rode him in his lap, almost growling and tearing into his hair, ruffling it up and scratching his back with your other hand at the feeling of his hands all over you, pressing down at your belly.

With a loud moan and a whimper, the two of you collided and met your high, stilling amidst your kiss as you felt each other release in each other, quietly mumbling each other’s names.

You felt him drip down your legs. Soaking in the pleasure, you open your eyes to see him and gasp at the beauty that is Rhaegar Targaryen. His eyes were blown wide open, pretty white lashes and red face, messy hair, and his pouty lips, begging to kiss you more and more.

The two of you just looked at each other, and then, a chuckle left you at the same time.

“We are animals.” He starts as he lies down, with you climbing on his chest.

“Indeed. Two pretty animals mating in the wild.” You begin putting flowers in his hair. daffodils, forget-me-nots, heliotropes, and tulips.

He hums.

“No one else I’d rather mate with.”

“Not even your harp?”

He laughs.

“The poor thing’s probably traumatized by now, the things we do, the filth we speak.” He glances at the harp resting quietly below the tree, long forgotten.

“Rhae?”

“Hmm?”

“Pick up some tansy when we leave, I need to brew the tea.”

He blushes furiously, nodding as the breeze picks up.

[ponderingmoonlight]

Keep doing it

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Synopsis: Satoru loves coming to your office everyday to finally win your heart. But it seems like you're more subborn than he thinks.

Warnings: language, a little bit of spice

„Fuck, you’re so annoying. What are you doing here Satoru?”

The smoke of your cigarette swirls around your frames and blocks his view of your lovely figure for a brief moment. It was almost a ritual now that Gojo Satoru would show up at your office at least once a day to sit cross-legged in the chair in front of your desk. Today is just another day of you knowing exactly why he’s here. It’s driving you insane to be honest. How many time have you told that dumbass you’re not interested in him, especially not a senseless affair? You’re a businesswoman after all. Your business is booming, the money is flowing, your reputation precedes you. You know full well that he only wants you as a trophy. Oh, but you are way more than that.

 “Why are you so cold, (y/n)? My offer is always fair, a businesswoman like you should know that.”

“Gojo”, you sign.

You sink into your chair and press your fingers on your temple. That man surely gives you a headache.

“Fucking with you because ‘you are the best’ is probably the worst offer I ever received. If you’re not here to make me a serious proposal, I’m sure you know where to find the door. Maybe I should lock the entrance in the future.”

“No door in the world can keep me from you, lovely (y/n). Also, you are making money off innocent souls who will give you loads of cash for you to cast out their curses. Your skills would be better off with the jujutsu academy. You’d be a great teacher by my side”, he casually blurts out while sliding his glasses down his nose just enough so you can catch a glimpse of his hypnotizing gaze.

You can’t help but let out a pejorative laugh. Gojo’s heart almost skips a beat when your delightful curves get up from your chair and you bend over your desk, your lovable face just inches away from his indigent lips. Oh, how many times he imagined this lovely sight, the only thing missing is his frame behind you and his hands gripping your hair firmly.

“Stop being so boring and beating yourself up as a preacher, your poor students have my heart. You as a teacher is probably the nastiest thing I could ever imagine, let along working with you. Also, when it comes to women, you are probably the worst man walking on this earth. I know exactly why you are wearing glasses at the moment, Satoru. I am not one of your cheap bitches, remember that.”

“And that’s exactly the reason why I won’t let go, sweetheart.”

“Oh Gojo”, you breathe out, grabbing his neck softly while pulling him a little closer to your face.

Although you can feel the stinging sensation between your legs, you keep your cool. You know full well that he only wants to wrap you around his finger on principle. Gojo Satoru, the man that turns female heads on a regular basis, the heartthrob, the woman eater. And even if his fine-looking sight makes you curious too, you don’t want to give in. But that surely doesn’t mean that you can’t toy with him a little, too.

“I will never be yours. Mark my words”, you purr against his mouth.

Before he has the chance to close the aching gap between your lips, you push his chin away harshly and straighten up your figure again.

“I’m not gonna lie, you truly are a temptation. I would die to know if you live up to your reputation. But you’re just not worth my time and energy.”

The way you toss your hair back and spread your sweet scent around the room almost drives him insane. Damn, you truly are something else, so different from all the women he normally wraps around his finger with just one look in his magnificent eyes. But that’s exactly what makes you attractive, a pleasant challenge.

“I could convince you otherwise. Give me a minute.”                                                                

Before you can react further, you feel the heat of his big frame behind you, his fingertips just inches away from your bare skin. For a brief moment, you can’t help but close your eyes, let yourself enjoy this sweet instant for a while. Gojo is a giant man, taller than you by one and a half head, to be exact. His arms could swallow you whole. How good it must feel to press your body against his, to feel his bare skin ghost against your own.  

“Please, let me touch you”, he breathes against your outer ear.

A shiver runs down your spine before you can stop it.

“Since when do you ask for anything, Satoru?”

“I’ll keep asking about you until you finally let me in”, he mumbles intensely.

A small smile creeps around your full lips, you can’t help but tilt your head to the side just enough to catch a glimpse at his handsome face. He looks unusual flustered.

“I can’t help it, you’re just fun to mess with.”

A swift motion is enough for you to now face him fully. You have to raise your head entirely in order to get lost in his eyes again. He looks so damn fine. Instinctively, you catch your bottom lip between your teeth in excitement.

“Stop biting your damn lip like that when you really wanna reject me. You’ve been driving me crazy since the first time I saw you at that crime scene. I can clearly see and feel that you want me too, (y/n). Why are you rejecting me?”

You tilt your head to the side while your fingers trace along the buttons on his uniform.

“I like men in uniform. This one brings out your eyes perfectly”, you mumble playfully.

“I bet you’d like it more when I take it off for you”, he purrs along with a breathtaking smile.

“That’s absolutely true.”

A triumphant smile plays across his face as his lips are just a touch away from yours. You’ve thought about this moments so many times. Whenever other men try to please you, you imagine what it might feel like to have him laying on top of you, his lips caressing your body, leaving marks all over your sensitive skin. His hands must feel good holding onto your hips tightly or when they grab your neck in order to press your lips closer to his. Just a little taste of him.

But your pride can’t allow it.

“Now, get the fuck out of here. I’m waiting for a better offer”, you hush with the usual firm voice and arrogant smile.

You break away from him and drop into your chair to light a cigarette. Gojo’s heart still races drowned in adrenalin. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time, apparently you are the only worthy opponent for him. A little giggle escapes his lips before he can stop it.

“What are you smiling about, idiot?”

“Eventually you will say yes. And until then, I’ll walk in here every fine day and annoy you, sweetheart. I’ve never experienced so much resistance from a woman before.”

“Well, apparently it’s time for your little wings to be clipped, Mr. woman connoisseur. And now get lost, I expect a customer in a few minutes and you’re stealing my clientele with your free offers”, with a swift motion of your hand you dismiss him from your office, your heart still beating fast within your chest while a wave of disappointment crushes over your body.

“Your body betrays you. I’ll be back, (y/n).”

“Do what you can’t help”, you reply dryly.

Your hands dig into the tender fresh of your tights at the thought of it. God, please keep doing it, for fuck’s sake.

[starry-eyesanddaydreams]

Helloo! I love your ABC's series of Alan Rickman's characters and so happen to see that you posted a prompt idea list a few days ago! Could you do a "wearing the other person's clothes" and "head scratches" for Lionel Shahbandar please? (Either of the two is fine if it's too much 😅) Thanks! <3

Ohhhhhhhh I love this one. We're gonna go with both here. <3

Sleepy morning snuggles

Lionel Shabandar x Reader

Lions are softies at heart, sometimes they just want snuggles and scritches

It was an early Wednesday morning in London. The sky was grey, and rain was falling steadily against your apartment windows as you moved around your kitchen to make breakfast. Movement from the corner of your eye caught your attention and you turned your head to see your lover emerging from your bedroom, still looking sleep mussed. You tried to stifle a giggle as you saw what he was wearing. "What's so funny?" He asks, with a mock indigent glare. His deep voice even more gravely than usual. "Nothing." you reply, innocently, shifting you attention back to the toaster in front of you, "Pink's a good colour on you." He shook his head, a smile tugging on his lips as he closed the distance between you. "Well, it was the only dressing gown you had, and someone made off with my shirt." He ran his hands down your sides to your hips, his palms gliding across the soft, white button up shirt you were wearing. It looked like a mini dress on you. Gripping your hips gently, he turned you to face him. "Not that I mind. I quite enjoy seeing you wearing my clothes." Leaning in and pulling you closer, he pressed a trail of soft, lazy kisses from your lips, along your jawline and down your neck. You brought your arms up to wrap around his shoulders and he responded by nuzzling his face against the curve of your neck. Your body relaxed fully against his. He was still warm from your bed and his arms made you feel safe and secure. You slipped on hand up from his shoulder to the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his greying hair. You flexed your fingers, lightly scratching his scalp with your nails the way you knew he liked. The soft moan of pleasure he let out sounded almost like a purr. Lions were just big cats after all.

[edupunkn00b]

Two Truths and All Lies

Photo by Javier Quiroga on Unsplash 

WC: 1692 - Rated: T - CW: alcohol, a wee bit of innuendo, Janus' defense mechanism on full display - [ AO3 ]

Remus set up his best friend Logan with his new friend Janus.

Written for Day 1 of @loceitweek 2024, off a prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting, #1101: "I am not the right person for you." "You're doing a bad job of convincing me of that."

-

Resisting the temptation to check his watch for the third time in half as many minutes, Logan closed his eyes and took a long draw of his wine. His blind date was over twenty minutes late.

And Logan had been waiting for thirty.

“Trust me, Lo Lo,” Remus had laughed when Logan had expressed uncertainty about the wisdom of going on a date with someone he’d never met. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

Logan began to count on his fingers. “The first I recall was In the second grade when you suggested I write my corrections in our Rabbit Reader books. Next was later that same year when—”

“Alright, alright, alright,” Remus shook his head and laughed again. “This guy’s perfect for you. He’s hot, but not in a boring Ken doll way. He’s so smart he can talk circles around the judges down at the ninth circuit and he’s available. Unlike—”

“Ah!” One hand raised, Logan shook his head. “You pledged never to mention that again.”

“Sorry,” he said, a moment of sincerity from his mess of a friend.

Inclining his head, Logan dismissed the moment and returned to their earlier debate. “What I don’t understand is if this man is as wonderful as you are making him out to be, why aren’t you dating him?”

Hand pressed to his chest, Remus put on a mask of hurt outrage. “You think I’m so hard-up I wouldn’t want to introduce you first?”

Logan crossed his arms, both eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he’d admitted with a sigh. “Ro dated him back in college. Bro code, I can’t touch him with a fifty foot pole.” Remus cackled. “Or a ten inch one.”

Shaking his head, Logan hadn’t been able to hold back a bark of laughter. “Especially with a ten inch one.”

A figure approached, walking between him and the setting sun. The movement cast a long shadow over the table and, backlit in soft pinks and gold, the new arrival appeared only as a silhouette.

It appeared his date had finally arrived.

Logan rose and offered his hand to shake when the man—the broad shoulders and low hum seemed right. “Good evening, I’m Logan Sanders. Are you Janus?”

He inclined his head, dipping his face into the candlelit centerpiece. The light made his features glow, calling attention to the heavy scarring over the left half of his face. “Janus Forrd,” he said, accepting Logan’s hand briefly before his eyes trailed up and down his form. “Well, I am relieved to see I am not underdressed.”

“Since when are french cuffs and a necktie casual wear?” Logan snapped before he could stop himself.

Janus chuckled. “Since I stopped buying my clothes off the rack at Penney’s.” His sleeves billowed elegantly as he took his seat, legs crossed under the table.

Biting back an additional indigent response, Logan straightened his tie and smoothed down the lapels of his jacket. Janus merely smirked up at him. “Are you planning on standing all evening? You must have more stamina than you look.”

The server saved him from saying something he might regret. “What can I start you gentlemen with tonight?”

Packaging up his frustration, Logan vowed to share it all with Remus later tonight. Of all the nights for him to play one of his pranks. He took a slow, measured breath and smiled up at the server. “Another glass, please,” he said, tapping the stem of his goblet. 

“Yes, sir.” The server made no mention of Janus’ tardiness, but did give Logan a small nod and a smile. “And what can I bring you, sir?” he said to Janus.

“Water for me,” he said, looking askance at Logan’s empty wine glass. “I never indulge on a first date.”

“Very good, sir,” the server said, glancing quickly at Logan before retreating to the sommelier station behind the bar.

When Logan turned back to his companion, he found Janus sitting forward, fingers threaded and supporting his chin. He smiled, eyes never budging from Logan’s face, a cat in front of an open bird cage. 

Logan was briefly tempted to leave then. But he’d been told more than once that he made a terrible first impression and he valued the friends who’d bothered to see past his own quirks. Perhaps this man, this friend of Remus’ even, deserved the same.

“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Logan offered, consciously relaxing his shoulders from their position up at his ears.

“We may have,” Janus concurred with a slow nod of his head. “And how would you propose we find out way onto the right foot?”

“Perhaps you could tell me something about yourself?” Logan said, adjusting his glasses. “Remus tells me you also practice law.”

“Hmph,” he hummed as the server brought their drinks. “Most people in your position choose to ask me about my scar.” Janus watched him over his water glass, the refraction emphasizing the streaks of red surrounding his left eye and the tight, rough skin splashed over his jaw and his cheekbone.

“While I readily admit a certain curiosity, I trust you will share your personal history in accordance with your level of comfort.” He shrugged. “To do otherwise would be… crude.” Logan frowned, dissatisfied with his imprecision.

“Interesting,” Janus leaned back in his chair, one arm draped artfully over the back rest. “I find such vulnerable honesty refreshing…” He took a slow sip of his water. “Unusual, even.”

Logan hummed and fought another frown. “I find it to be most efficient to be honest and open when meeting a potential romantic partner.”

“Really?” He said, leaning forward and steepling his hands, elbows resting lightly on the table between them. He tapped his lower lip with his fingertips and stared at him for long enough for Logan to wonder if he had somehow missed a question. “I practice the opposite. In fact, this is one the few honest statements I’ve made all evening. On that note—” He signaled their server and gestured toward Logan’s half-empty glass.

“Please bring us a bottle of whatever my companion is drinking.”

“That’s absurd. You don’t even know if you’d like it.”

“You appear to be and I trust your taste.”

“What?” Logan snapped his jaw shut before anything further could come out while the server was still at their table. He waited, gaze focused on his lap for a slow count to four. When the server left with a curt bow of his head, Logan looked up and adjusted his eyeglasses before speaking again. “I do not know what precisely you hope to accomplish with this little stereotypical alpha male negging pick-up artist… thing,” he finished not with a bang but a fumbled whimper.

“You surprise me, dear Logan,” Janus said, reaching across the table and taking his glass. “I would expect someone of your intellect and observational skills to have already deduced I find this thing to be a more than effective dating strategy.”

Scoffing, Logan took out his wallet and signaled their server but Janus waved him off. Infuriatingly, the man listened to Janus. “Very well, then, the drinks are on you. I am leaving,” he said, pushing back his chair and pushing up to his feet. “It is clear to me that I am simply not the right man for you.”

"I disagree,” he said, that infernal smirk pulling up the unblemished side of his face. “Your wit has the sharpness to draw blood. As I said before, you have remarkable taste in wine.” He savored his wine before winking. “And in men.”

Janus’ eyes wandered over his face before trailing down over his shoulder and chest. “You are just this side of conventionally attractive, classically beautiful, even.”

Logan wished such empty praise was insufficient to heat his cheeks. He wished for world peace, as well.

“See?” Janus said, his smirk softening into a full smile. “Even your blush is fetching.”

Forcing his mouth into a scowl, Logan raised one eyebrow but Janus wasn’t done. “You are seemingly impervious to my undeniable charms and a stickler for accuracy and integrity. You were disarmingly prompt this evening, arriving a full ten minutes before our date was scheduled to begin.”

Logan’s eyes widened at Janus’ implicit admission that he had somehow arrived even earlier.

“I was over there,” he said, gesturing toward the darkened bar without breaking eye contact. “I watched you arrive and assess the venue before subtly slipping the maitre’d a folded bill and obtaining us the best table in the house.” Janus finished his glass and refilled first Logan’s, then his own from the bottle. “Impeccable view,” he said, staring straight ahead.

“I have a view of the water and the rest of the establishment,” Logan corrected. “You have a view of passable recreations of Degauss along a wall badly in need of updated wallpaper.”

“Au contraire,” he chuckled, contemplating the swirling dark liquid in his cup before fixing Logan with his gaze. “I have the best view in the restaurant.”

For all the doublespeak, Logan found himself believing him. At least, believing that Janus spoke the truth for him. He sat back down and picked up his glass. “I am not the right man for you,” he repeated, a crooked smile making its way to his face.

Janus shook his head and held up his glass as if to toast him. “You're doing a bad job of convincing me of that."

Clinking their glasses together, Logan cocked one eyebrow. “Then perhaps I should endeavor to make my point more adamantly.”

Janus raised his glass to his lips, half-obscuring his smile. “Then perhaps you should.”

Drinking their wine, the men stared at each other for a long while and, as the sun set, Logan’s eyes watched light and shadow from the surrounding candles caress Janus’ cheek. Hiding his own smile behind his goblet, he sat back in his chair. “It is abhorrent manners to arrive twenty minutes late to a first date.”

“Hmm? Really,” Janus replied, stretching his free hand across the table and brushing his fingers over Logan’s arm. “Tell me more.”

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Last week, the Supreme Court heard oral arguments in what could end up being its most consequential abortion decision since Dobbs. In a case pitting Idaho’s extreme abortion ban against a federal law known as EMTALA—that since 1986 has required hospitals to provide emergency care—conservative justices seemed to embrace the idea that states can deny crisis medical treatment to pregnant patients, even if doing so means those patients suffer catastrophic, life-altering injuries. “My reaction can be summed up as ‘appalled,’” says Sara Rosenbaum, emerita professor at George Washington University who is one of the country’s foremost experts in health policy issues affecting women and families. “Will [the court] really say it is fine [to enforce] a law that costs women their organs as long as they don’t die?”

It’s hard to think of a piece of progressive American health care policy since the late 1970s in which Rosenbaum hasn’t played a pivotal role conceptualizing, enacting, or improving. That includes the federal statute that guarantees the right of every American to go to a hospital emergency room and receive medical treatment before being sent somewhere else. The Emergency Medical Treatment and Labor Act requires hospitals to screen and stabilize anyone who arrives at the emergency room, including women in active labor. Narrow in scope yet vast in impact, the law has been a “force field around hospital emergency departments,” Rosenbaum says, protecting pregnant patients for four decades. Now, with the Dobbs decision, SCOTUS has “blown up medical care for childbearing people,” she says—and EMTALA could be the next major health care protection that the court decides to explode.

To more fully understand the implications of the case before the Supreme Court, we reached out to Rosenbaum to discuss the history of this unique statute and why it has become even more vital since the end of Roe v Wade.

You’ve called EMTALA “revolutionary” and “the most important American health care law that we have.” Why? What makes this law so special? 

It’s the only American law we have that guarantees access to care. For everybody. It doesn’t matter who you are—whether you have insurance or don’t have insurance, what color you are, how much money you have, whether or not you’re disabled. If you come to a hospital emergency department and you believe you have an emergency, they have to screen you. If it is an emergency, they have to stabilize you. The definition of an emergency isn’t that you’re in danger of dying; it includes situations that could lead to severe, long-lasting physical harm. And the decision about what is required to stabilize you—it’s up to the doctor’s medical judgment.

I would say EMTALA is really our only universal health care law.

This law is from 1986. What was happening in the ’70s and ’80s that made EMTALA seem so necessary?

A few things were going on. Back in the early ’80s, a decision was made that the United States was spending too much on hospital care. So Congress changed the payment structure for Medicare [the single largest payer for health care services in the US] to incentivize shorter stays. Pretty soon there were stories emanating from the press about a phenomenon they called “sicker and quicker,” where patients who actually had been admitted to the hospital were getting discharged too soon, when they were still unstable.

Another major problem was that indigent people were not able to get emergency care at all. There were a lot of stories of women being sent away in labor—not just pregnant patients, although that was the story that got the most play. In those days, many fewer women were eligible for Medicaid than are today and it wasn’t as generous. Only very, very indigent women could get Medicaid coverage.

Later in the 1980s, you also helped persuade Congress to vastly expand Medicaid for pregnant women, making it a federal requirement.

There’s no question that poor people bore the brunt, but they were not the only ones. For example, one of the most famous EMTALA cases from that period involved a patient with HIV—nobody would touch him. There have been many cases of fully insured people who, for whatever reason, hospitals just chose not to treat. People who were in a drunk driving accident and were out of control, for example, or mental health patients who were disruptive. Even if the patient was well insured, if they were a handful they would get sent over to the public hospital.

Hospitals are very good at getting rid of people they don’t want. And so, while indigent people were the immediate focus, there’s nothing in EMTALA that limits it to uninsured people. That’s the important thing.

Tell me about one of your pregnancy cases from this era.

One of the cases I worked on in the mid-’70s involved a Black woman named Hattie Mae Campbell who went into premature labor at her home near Holly Springs, Mississippi. She had Medicaid, but the local hospital refused to treat Medicaid patients. The baby was coming out. And the nurse stood at the door of the hospital with her arms spread wide, blocking the entrance, refusing to let her set one foot inside, because once a patient crossed over the line, there were legal arguments to be made that the hospital had begun the admission process. So she gave birth in the parking lot.

And we know that after the birth, the staff still refused admission. They provided a sheet to wrap the baby, then they transferred Campbell and her newborn to another hospital 30 miles away. How much of a factor was racism in these situations?

Race is always a factor—a combination of racism and the fact that people of color were even more poorly insured than white people.

Were there regional differences in how patients were being treated?

There were hospitals all along the Texas-Mexico border that would dress up [security] guards as immigration officials. They would station personnel at the door so you couldn’t come in. But this was going on everywhere. Rich states, poor states, affluent communities, not-so-affluent communities, racist communities, not-such-racist communities. It was happening everywhere because [private] hospitals felt that public hospitals or community hospitals should take care of patients they didn’t want.

You should understand that hospitals were set up to accept only the patients they want. That has been tempered a bit. In the case of emergency care, they can’t do that anymore. But it hasn’t changed that much. A hospital might want me for elective surgery but not my neighbor down the street who’s a Latina who has Medicaid coverage. I mean, they have all kinds of ways to avoid patients they don’t want, right? The type of insurance they take, the doctors they give admitting privileges to, deciding what networks to be part of.

That’s why EMTALA was enacted using Medicare, which is a national program, as the stick. If you as a hospital want to participate in Medicare, and you run an emergency department, then you must do these things as a condition of participation.

Even despite all these horror stories, I still have a hard time imagining how you and other public health advocates managed to get EMTALA passed.

There was no resistance in Congress. None. A Republican Senate, a Democratic House, virtually identical language in both bills. Signed by Ronald Reagan. It really was a different era in the life of the United States.

And then what happened?

Oh, then there was huge hospital resistance. Even though hospitals were very involved in designing EMTALA, it’s a pretty heavy-duty regulation. Over the years, there’s been a lot of resistance both to the requirement that hospitals have to do an initial screening and to the requirement that they have to stabilize the patient before discharging or transferring. There have been thousands of EMTALA cases. The federal government has brought them, private individuals have brought them.

There was a lot of resistance from attending doctors as well. The very first enforcement action was a birth case out of Texas. An OB-GYN who was supposed to be on-call went duck hunting, and when the hospital got a call that a woman had presented in labor, he said, basically, “I’m not coming in for her.”

In 1989, the language of the statute was tweaked to clarify that EMTALA didn’t just apply to the pregnant person, but also to the “unborn child.” Nowadays that goes right to the “personhood” argument of abortion opponents—indeed Justice Alito invoked it during oral arguments. Why was that language necessary then and how is it different from how it is being deployed today?

Because women were still giving birth in parking lots. Women in labor were still being spurned. That language is in there because women who literally had babies coming out of them were being sent away. Everybody understood that you had two medical crises going on here, the crisis of the mother and the crisis of the baby. Everyone, apparently, except the noncompliant hospitals. The concern was not just the pregnant woman, the way it is with some of the emergencies we’re hearing about post-Dobbs, where the fetus is utterly non-viable and the focus is rightly on the pregnant woman.

So the language was clarified: The baby was also a patient. Here on Planet Earth, there are two concerns in labor and delivery, the mother and the baby.

Was there any worry that at some point in the future, anti-abortion people might point to that language and say, as Idaho and Texas are arguing now, “See, EMTALA actually means we can’t do abortions because we have to care for the unborn child”?

That really was not ever the intent. No, no, no, no. We didn’t put that language in there because we were suddenly creating embryonic fetal rights. It’s just a complete misunderstanding of EMTALA.

The pro-choice world crabbed about the language but didn’t fight it tooth and nail because everyone understood the context was labor and delivery. And they were going to lose that [battle]—no member of Congress was willing to listen to nonsense at that point about “clean up your language.” I’ve litigated abortion cases since the Hyde Amendment [the 1976 law banning the use of federal funds for abortion under most circumstances], and I was completely not troubled by that language.

Was it always understood that in some situations, EMTALA might require doctors to do emergency abortions?

This issue of abortion as an emergency procedure has been grounded in EMTALA for a long, long time. There were already cases in the early ’90s of women coming to the hospital with a terrible pregnancy emergency where an abortion had to happen. Or they’d had an abortion that failed, or an incomplete miscarriage that needed an abortion procedure. So this issue [of whether EMTALA requires hospitals to perform emergency abortions] is not new. What’s new is Dobbs. What’s new is what the Supreme Court unleashed when it overturned Roe v Wade.

Pregnancy-related complications that might lead to emergency abortions—for example, when the embryo implants in the fallopian tube instead of the uterus, or when a woman’s water breaks too early for the fetus to survive—are a lot more common than many people realize. But pregnant people end up in the emergency room for all kinds of other reasons, too.

Pregnant people are frequent users of emergency departments. About one in 500 pregnancies goes to an emergency department at some point. Most of the attention has rightly been placed on emergencies where something terrible has happened to the pregnancy itself. But there’s a whole other group of emergencies that aren’t pregnancy-related—it could be appendicitis, it could be a car accident, it could be domestic abuse, it could be COVID.

The tendency when somebody is pregnant is to send them to the emergency department right away because you don’t want to take any chances. And sometimes in these situations, you need anesthesia, you need surgery. Sometimes, unfortunately, as a consequence of treatment you may have a demise. What Idaho has done is to make every pregnant person coming to an emergency department radioactive.

As someone who has spent your whole career steeped in health policy and health law, did you see this moment coming? When hospitals turn away pregnant patients with life-threatening emergencies? When a law as important as EMTALA seems on the verge of being gutted?

It was very evident, from the moment that the Dobbs decision was leaked, that there was just a total, fundamental clash between what states like Idaho with these terrible abortion bans thought they had the license to do and what EMTALA required.

When the Dobbs decision finally came down, my daughter called, incredibly upset. All of her friends were incredibly upset. I said, “Here’s my one piece of advice. You have friends all over the country. The ones who live in any one of the states that are going to impose a complete ban, tell them that they must not get pregnant. And if they do want to be pregnant, they must move away. Because a lot of things can go wrong in a pregnancy, and if anything goes wrong, they’re not going to be able to get emergency care.”

The other thing that I realized right away is that it would be impossible for doctors to practice in these places, and there would be a huge exodus of providers. And in Idaho that has happened. So people like me, who are steeped in health policy, understood immediately what was coming. But where we are now is worse than I could have even imagined it was going to be.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Daylight; The Path of Least Resistance

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Author's Note: So, I made it a thing Summary: A month after Thomas and Y/n last saw each other, neither of them can seem to let go. Masterlists Daylight Warnings: Angst, infidelity, mentions of prostitutes.

One month later Sitting up against the silk covered pillows, Thomas reaches over into a small, wooden box stationed on the exquisitely designed bedside table for a cigarette, collecting the lighter as well before rolling the slender paper cylinder between his lips. Bedside him, Thomas feels someone shifting around, though, just as she moves to drape a slender arm over his bare midsection, he shuffles out of the messy bed, pulls on his pants and goes over the suite’s stocked drink cart. 

At first, he goes for the bottle of top-shelf whiskey, but when he catches a glimpse of a familiar label on a green tinted bottle perched in a bucket of ice, Thomas grabs that instead. He’s never been much of a wine drinker, but its Y/n’s favorite and ever since that last evening at  her apartment, Thomas has found himself eager to hold on to whatever of her he has left.

Filling a delicate crystal glass to the halfway mark, Thomas takes a large swing of the honeyed liquor, humming at the way buttery notes meld with the flavor of red berries. Its never been hard to deduce why she likes it so much, though that evening, he finds that there’s an unusual, bitter undertone to the typically sweet wine, perhaps because he can hardly have a sip without recalling her red rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. 

Anguish he caused her. 

Punctuating long sips of wine with strong pulls of his cigarette, Thomas lingers at the cart, feeling much too guilty to even turn around and address the woman populating the large bed at the center of the room. He can’t quite remember her name, or even if he’d asked, but not knowing what the call her is hardly the source of the heaviness on his conscience; 

Its only been about a month since he last saw Y/n and he can’t help but feel like its a crime to fill her space. It feels like he’s betraying her.

Funny enough, Thomas has never felt that way about stepping out on Grace. Of course there were the usual feelings of self-reproach; she hadn’t been wrong when she accused him of not wanting to cheat on Grace- he never did, but after meeting Y/n once, he was a goner. She was like a magnet and he was iron- he couldn't help himself.

Y/n was a bright, un-flickering flame erupting from cold, pitch darkness and Thomas was a broken-winged moth at her mercy. 

“Why don’t you come back to bed?” A pair of arms wind around his waist and he feels the young woman’s breasts press against his back, the coolness of her rayon slip contrasting with the warmth of his skin, “We’ve still got an hour, honey.”

Irritated by the intrusion, Thomas snuffs on the cigarette in a nearby ash tray and uses his now free hand to push her arms away. “Get dressed,” he mumbles coldly, crossing the room to collect his own clothes. 

The prostitute scoffs, “The cost’s still the same,” she folds her arms indigently and shifts her weight from one leg to the next. 

Rolling his eyes, Thomas tugs on his trousers without looking at her, “I’ll pay you extra to shut the fuck up.” When his snide offer is met with nothing more than an irate huff, Thomas spares the woman a glance, furrowing his brows as his passing look leads to the strangest realization; he hadn’t noticed before, but she looks a little like Y/n- if Y/n were much cheaper, wore way too much rouge and dabbled in drugs. 

Perhaps they just have broadly similar features- perhaps when he was drunk that was enough, but now that he’s sobered up, Thomas is completely disgusted with himself. 

That  was another thing she was right about; she is a sin that he needs to atone for. He does need forgiveness- for what he did to her, how he tried to replace her as if she were nothing more than a void existing within him. And he’d deserve it if she never accepted his attempt at  recompense.

Finally shrugging his long coat over his suit and collecting his hat, Thomas brushes past the half-dressed young woman and carelessly tosses a few crumpled notes to the bedside table closest to the door, its probably way more than the amount that they agreed on but he doesn’t care. In fact, he can hardly think of anything but his desire to put as much distance between himself and his cheap distraction as possible.

“Don’t you at least want to know my name?” She asks just as his hand closes in around the door knob, prompting Thomas to pause contemplatively. 

He really isn’t certain as to whether or not he’s even actually asked her, but Thomas doesn’t particularly care either. “No,” he offers coldly, shutting the door behind him in the wake of his exit. 

Outside the hotel, when Thomas finally clamors into his car, the sun has already set and according to his pocket watch, its nearing nine pm. He knows that he should go home; its late and he’s tired near the point of blindness but Grace has recently taken Charles to Ireland on a visit to her family and Thomas finds that the house feels incredibly hollow without them, even if there is still a full staff carrying on with business as usual. 

In retrospect, its probably him that’s hollow- them being gone leaves him with too much idle time. Even if things are still unending at work, he still finds his mind straying to thoughts of someone that put him out of her life, and it is in those moments, Thomas usually welcomes the distraction offered by Charles wanting company to play with his trains or Grace popping in for menial small talk. 

He’s been doing anything and everything to keep his mind off her but nothing seems to work.

There isn’t a damn thing he’s done in the past month that isn’t hampered by the thought of Y/n. The feel of her mouth on his, the warmth of her skin, the smell of her perfume when he kisses her neck- her laugh, the serenity he feels when they’re together. Truthfully, Thomas had known missing her would eat away at him from the minute Y/n had asked him to leave but he’s done his utmost best to prove himself wrong; if she wants him gone then he’ll damn well go. 

But he can’t seem to let go. 

He still drives by her flat sometimes and spends a couple minutes gazing up at the window, wondering what she’s up, to while other times, he’ll get as far as asking the operator to put him through to her phone only to hang up before Y/n can pick up. There’s a bottle of her favorite wine in his office and the jeweler recently delivered a necklace he’d ordered especially for her. 

A delicate looking, pearl choker with an oval ruby the size of his thumb nail at the center- he doesn’t have to give it to Y/n to know she’d love it. In fact, despite their state of affairs, Thomas is still debating whether or not he should just send it to her; it’s meant for her anyway. 

The engine tumbles to life with minimal effort, and upon steering out onto the street, where traffic is progressively dwindling as the hour grows later, Thomas makes a rash and impulsive decision; 

He’s going to see her- the necklace, tucked in the glove compartment,  is as good an excuse as any. 

Even if she slams the door in his face after barely looking at him, even if she condemns him to hell, for one moment, he’ll cross her mind and Thomas will know that he isn’t alone in the torrent of memories. 

The path to her house is one that has been seared into his memory; he can find his way there from anywhere. Y/n, he often thought before the mess of things, is like a beacon; a lighthouse with beams bright enough to burst through the thickest fog, a siren song that calls him home. He can find her without thinking, he knows his way to her as if his place was always meant to be alongside her. 

He is meant to walk the golden bricked road that leads to her. 

“Thank you for walking me back,” Y/n flashes her companion a small smile as they reach the front doors of her building. 

Peter shrugs nonchalantly but by the yellow light of the near-by street lamp, she catches the way his green eyes brighten as he stuff his fidgety hands into the pockets of brown, tweed slacks. “Of course,” he licks his lips nervously and Y/n draws in a stilling breath. Peter works at the orphanage’s library and according to the other teacher’s Y/n usually lunches with, he’s always fancied her; he brings her little things from the nearby bakery sometimes and brought her flowers on her birthday earlier that year. He’s sweet, she thinks, and has a sort of boyish charm about him- he’s exactly the kind of man she usually favors; quiet, safe and respectable. 

If she weren’t so stuck in her feelings for Thomas, Y/n might actually return his feelings. 

Thomas; Y/n has been trying to push him towards the back of her mind since the evening she asked him to leave. She keeps telling herself that she needs to get over him, make him an afterthought- after all, that’s all she probably is to him;

A warm body to fill his time. Something young and pretty that he can play with when he’s bored of his wife. 

Nothing but heartache can come from a man like Thomas- a married man with enough money and power to think that affords him the privilege to do what he wants. Treat women however he wants. She’s learned that the hard way. 

He hardly even cares about himself, so it isn’t far-fetched that he doesn’t have the capacity to care for her. 

So why can’t she seem to let him go; why does she think of him when she wakes up and goes to bed, when she goes to work or gets in a bath? When she does something painstakingly mundane or completely out of her routine.  

When she’s linking arms with a nice man who’d never treat her the way Thomas has. 

“Did you hear me?” Peter touches her elbow and Y/n jumps, only just realizing that she’d lapsed into contemplation. Its funny how he can take up so much space in her mind while simultaneously being absent from her life. 

Shaking her head, Y/n paints on a faltering smile, “No, sorry. What was that?” She tips her chin a little to meet his gaze. 

“Its nothing,” Peter rubs the back of his head bashfully, “I was just saying….it was my pleasure; its been nice spending time with you.”

She supposes that if she let herself, Y/n might be able to return those words without them being a lie. But she can’t; truthfully, she’s been doing the same thing that Thomas did with her- using Peter as a distraction. Y/n would love to think that her crime is hardly as severe, but if Peter does feel for her what all her friends say he does, then the cruelty is just the same. 

“Its…been nice for me too,” Y/n licks her lips, “I really....” Before she can finish, the car coming up the street slow as it approaches them, finally pulling up across the street, where an aged tree affords the driver the opportunity to keep their identity shrouded. Though, Y/n doesn’t need to see the driver to know whose car that is; she’s been in that  car more times than she can count. 

Thomas. 

Her heart quickens and Y/n’s gaze hastily shifts between the polished Bentley and Peter as irrational guilt sets in. Feeling that way is utterly irrational, Y/n knows that much- she isn’t betraying him, just moving on. 

Torn between wanting to keep pressing forward until Thomas is completely in her rear view and missing him so much that it burns, Y/n fumbles with her words. 

“Are you okay?” Peter probes when her stare lingers on the car. 

“Um..yeah,” flashing him a tight smile, Y/n turns back to Peter, “Its just-”

Off to her left, the distinct click of the car door being opened catches her attention once more, and Y/n shifts her gaze just in time to see Thomas getting out of the car before shoving the door shut. “Do you know him?” Peter protectively reaches for her arm just as Thomas lingers at the car, hands stowed in his pockets. 

“I-yeah,” she nods vigorously, “I do. I should go,”  Y/n lays her palm on his hand, still gently holding her arm, and offers it a reassuring squeeze, “I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?”

Confused by her sudden desire to dismiss him, Peter nods stiffly, “Right, yeah, of course,” he drops his hand and Y/n immediately feels awful about possibly disappointing him, “Monday. Enjoy your weekend.”

“You too,” he’s about to walk off when Y/n impulsively leans towards him, planting a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips, “I really appreciate you walking me back,” she reminds him, words whispered against his lips before she spares him another, quicker kiss. When she pulls away, Peter’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide behind his round-framed spectacles. 

Their hands brush when he finally walks off, though its hardly the reason for the shiver that runs through her. Instead, its Thomas’ glare that prompts Y/n to suck in a sharp breath. 

Jealousy, fury or a volatile combination of both- its hard to tell. Shamefully though, Y/n is quite pleased to have achieve what she’d set out to do; arouse a reaction that he has no choice but to subdue. 

She isn’t his to fight for, he has no claim to her.

Matching his stance, Y/n slips her hands into the front pockets of her burgundy long coat, “I told you to not come back here.” 

“Not exactly,” without concern, he slowly steps forward, pausing when he reaches the middle of the sleepy street, “You said you never wanted to see me again.”

Shaking one shoulder, Y/n blinks quickly and looks away, “Same thing,” she sniffles, “You shouldn’t be here- I don’t want you here.”

Licking his lips, Thomas nods in feigned understanding, “Really?”

“Yes.” 

It only hands a few more steps before Thomas is stepping onto the sidewalk, leaving only about six inches between them. If it was hard to think with him twenty miles away, its even harder with him so close that she can smell cheap, floral perfume staining his clothes. “Really?” Thomas asks again. 

How dare he fuck someone else and then show up at her doorstep? 

“Really,” in her pockets, Y/n’s fists ball and she grits her teeth, “Besides, I’m sure your whore’s waiting on you,” she spats, turning on her heel to head towards the building. 

But Thomas is faster. Grabbing her arm, he urges her back towards him and by the time she’s able to shake off his grip, their chests are barely a hair apart, “That was a mistake,” he admits, eyes growing dim as his tone becomes mournful, “I wanted so fuckin’ bad for her to be you.” 

Huffing a dry chuckle, Y/n rolls her eyes, “Aren’t we past flattery, Tom?” 

“This would be easier if it were flattery,” Thomas’ grip lingers on her hips, firm but not bruising, “I miss you, Y/n,” he stresses and she can feel her resolve chipping away. 

A hitched breath burns her throat on his way out, “Why are you doing this to me?” She whines, “Haven’t I given you enough?” 

Thomas doesn’t answer directly, Y/n doesn’t expect him to. “You have,” he admits, “But I can’t get you outta my fuckin’ head. I don’t know what you’ve done to me-”

“What I’ve done you?” She pulls away abruptly, only for Thomas to easily reel her back in. 

“That’s not how I meant it,” he sighs, thinking for a handful of seconds before pressing his lips to hers in what she thinks is his version of an apology. For the shortest moment, she considers not responding at all but his lips on hers are a reminder of everything she misses about him; the thrill he offers, his ability to make her feel like the most special woman in the world. 

When Y/n finally relents, everything after comes like a breaking wave in the midst of a storm. Her arms loom around his neck and Y/n leans forward on her toes, practically melting into Thomas’ chest. Their lips move in impassioned synchrony while he kneads her hips hungrily. He begins nudging her towards the front doors of the building, steps rendered blind and clumsy by their un-breaking lip lock. 

Its just one more night, she concedes; small crime in comparison to the past year. They can out run the daylight one more time, 

“This is not alright,” Y/n shudders against his lips as her back hits the door and Thomas reaches past her to push it open. 

It is not alright, but the path of least resistance rarely is. 

[legendarybelmont]

Prompt: Alucard sees himself as Dracula's son, Trevor sees him as a friend

Trevor frowned slightly, unsure. He lifted a hand haltingly, then placed it on Alucard's shoulder. "What troubles you?" He asked, quiet. The moon hovered over the sky rendered in a circle far too large and reddened, and the sky was too black for stars. A wan campfire flickered sadly between the two of them, little more than decoration compared to the icy aura of the devil's castle and the all-encompassing dark. They were the only ones awake.

Hopefully Alucard was not too cold; the cape he wore surely warmed him some, but was it quite enough? He was a thin and pale man. Perhaps that was the thing troubling him? "Here," said Trevor, before Alucard had a chance to reply, and shucked his own cloak off, draping it over his friend. Alucard blinked owlishly, looking down at the tattered fabric, then up again.

"Trevor," he said, "that's not necessary. Please take your cloak back."

"Are you not frozen?"

"Surely not more than you will be-"

"I will be fine," Trevor cut him off simply, and leaned forward, close to the fire as he could get without killing it. "Alucard, what ails you? You look in need. Your expression is gloomy."

"Is it not always?..." Alucard looked at him strangely, eyes glimmering. Neat, that - Trevor thought his friend might be impossible to see in the dark otherwise, he blended into it so well. The eyes were often called the window to the soul, as well, and Trevor found them easier to read than the face. Alucard was unwell.

The man in question sighed, shaking his head, and turned to look at the fire instead of at Trevor. "... I am alright. It is just," and here Alucard looked around them both, as if to see whether or not Sypha and Grant could listen - they couldn't, Trevor could hear their snoring - before saying, in a low voice, "the closer we get to the castle pinnacle, does it not disturb you?" Again, Alucard's eyes met Trevor's. He looked frightened.

Trevor tilted his head. "Dracula? I have no fear of him. The only men that would go so far to hurt others are the most pathetic kind. I have no doubt that together, we can best him. Do you not believe so?"

Alucard stared. "Not Dracula, Trevor, I meant-" he lifted a hand, ran it through his hair. Trevor waited patiently, if confused, resisting the urge to fidget. "Me, Trevor. I meant myself."

Trevor looked at Alucard weirdly, brow quirking. "... What are you talking about? I do not understand." Quietly, he huffed. "You are a strange man, Alucard. You speak to me in riddles."

"I most certainly do not," Alucard shot back, with some spark to his voice; a victory, Trevor considered. Even indigance suited him better than melancholy did. "Trevor, I'm Dracula's son."

Trevor's confusion didn't abate. "... Yes, I am aware. What of it?"

Alucard sighed through his nose. "The closer we get to the throneroom, should you not become more and more anxious? I'm no better than the monster you want to fell! What if I betrayed you, sold you out to one of the demons in my father's employ? I could lead you right into a trap." As Trevor opened his mouth to argue, Alucard curled in on himself. "... What if I lose heart to do what must be done?"

Trevor's lips pressed together, flat, before he shuffled closer to Alucard and knocked their shoulders together, smirking at the yelp it earned him. The fire was beginning to fail, becoming but faint embers. They would have to swap out with Grant and Sypha for watch duty soon. "You will not," he said firmly. "You cannot agree with what Dracula is doing - you are a noble and kind man, even if I do not understand you, sometimes. You have proven to be a friend and companion to us beyond any other; our faith in you will not waver. I know you would never cross us, and you will fight by our sides 'till we free Wallachia of its curse."

As Alucard's lips parted, Trevor continued speaking before he could start. "Do not worry about such foolish things. You are greater than Dracula in every respect, and if he knows you as his child, that does not matter." Trevor looked away, then said, in a gentler tone of voice, "You may call me conceited, but I believe that I know you much better than he does. I know you as one of my dearest friends." At Alucard's stunned silence, Trevor turned his gaze back, and saw the man gawking like a merman. He sniggered, trying to hold in his laughter as to not wake the others; it was a failing effort, and resulted in an outpouring of hissed, wheezing laughs. Reflexively, it seemed, Alucard thwapped him hard over the back.

"Hush! You'll wake the dead with that racket!" Alucard whisper-snapped, but he seemed less fettered now, features brighter even during the castle's oppressive night. As Trevor wound down, Alucard said, carefully, "... I do not think I deserve your regard, Trevor, but - thank you. I will become someone worthy of your respect in every way I can."

"You already are!" Trevor said back, exasperated. Had the man not been listening to a word he said?

Alucard smiled grimly, fangs pearly against his lips. "Not while my father still lives, I'm not."

[asena-graywolf]

Click here for 👉 Part 1

Click here for 👉 Part 2

————————————————————————————————————————

You’re My Slave Now III

As you agreed on Monday, you met in the shower cabins of the locker room after practice without arousing suspicion.

Oikawa threw his bag on the ground

"I promise you. Whatever happens, it will be here now and will remain a secret between us forever. I'll delete all those pictures when we're done."

"Understood"

"Ok. For the last time, obey my orders,” he said firmly and clearly.

"What would you like me to do?" you asked with a sigh

"Get undress"

You took off all your clothes. It was the first time you were standing naked in front of him alive. He has always watched you digitally until now. Seeing you naked and ready to be fucked in front of him excited him too.

"Aren't you going to get undress too?" you asked curiously

"Ok. Then I'll get undress," he said and took off his volleyball team jersey.

His muscular body was revealed.

"Yes. What will I do now?” you asked again

He approached you and pulled you into one of the shower stalls. Being in a tight environment, you could easily smell the pungent lotion mixed with sweat coming from Oikawa's sweaty body.

"Let's see how wet your fuck-hungry cunt is?"

He pressed his fingers against her clitoris like he was mad. You moaned loudly as soon as he pressed it.

You could hear the wet smack from your pussy. Oikawa was rubbing your clit hard.

“Is that good bitch?”

"Yes."

"I can’t hear?" he said mocking you

"Very good!!"

"Well done! Look how wet you are"

He showed you his cunt-soaked fingers.

"Don't do that! This is so embarrassing…”

He put his fingers in his mouth as he said "Clean it up"

You felt short of breath and you nearly suffocated. You sucked Oikawa's cunt-stained fingers

After taking his fingers from his mouth, he gave the second command

"Kneel down!"

You knelt down and he pulled your shorts down, exposing your erect dick. He grabbed you by the back of her hair and brought her mouth close to his dick

“Suck that!”

Pressing your head, he brutally forced you to blow him. He made you look at him while he licked his dick with the occasional slap in the your face.

“How does my dick taste? Is it nice? You want even more, whore? Shall I cum in your mouth, huh?"

He growled aggressively and, as if in a frenzy, forced you more terribly.

You were licking his dick faster now. His dick was all in his mouth. You almost had your balls in your mouth. You dug your nails into her hips

"So you know how to lick a dick. Good bitch!"

He patted her head and ejaculated as you shoved his dick out of your mouth. The semen flowing from his lips dripped into his palms

“Look at you! Fucking whore indigent to cock!”

You coughed and spit out all the semen in your mouth

She said, "Wait here," and left the shower stall and soon came back with three different colored condoms.

Presented all three for you to choose

"Choose one."

“What are they?”

“Kiwi, Strawberry and Lemon”

You said "I choose the lemon one" and pulled the yellow condom from her hand

“Good choice bitch. Now I'll make that wet pussy squirt juice like a lemon"

“Please master. My pussy needs to be fucked”

"Don't worry. I will meet your needs”

He put the condom of your choice on your hardened dick. He put his middle finger in your pussy and pumped it a few times

Your enjoyment would soon be doubled. He lifted one leg to the side and slapped her clitoris before diving inside.

The walls of the vagina stretched as he entered it. It was as if all your blood had been drawn. The juices of her wet cunt were making her dick sticky.

You took flight. Saliva dripping from your mouth was dripping from your lips to your chin

He bit his lip when he realized it wasn't the first time

“You are not bleeding. Tell me, how many people have fucked you before?"

"Nevermind. I just want you to fuck me right now Oikawa-kun"

As Oikawa got more aggressive, he started going in and out even more recklessly.

“I wanted to have it but others had it before me? Damn! I should have punished you by getting you pregnant right here."

He came out and gave her a few smacks on her wet cunt. The pleasure of spanking provoked you even more

“Turn around!” he strictly ordered

He gave the second order the moment you turned your back

“Put your hands on the wall”

You pressed your hands against the wall and lifted your hips towards him. Oikawa's hardened cock widened the vaginal walls. He was fucking you without pity. Your white, delicate skin was flushed from the smack on the hips. If you could look at your hips in that position, you'd see the redness and handprints he left on you.

Your poor body was red as if beaten

“Tonight, right here, I'll take no pity on your narrow little pussy! I will fuck you till you cry!”

A ruthless and crazed monster emerged from inside Oikawa. He was using all his speed and energy to get in and out.

He grabbed one of his hands, which was leaning against the wall. He grabbed two of his fingers and brought them down, bringing your fingers to your clitoris.

“Touch yourself. For added pleasure, massage your clitoris hard.”

From the intense stimulation, your brain and body went numb. Tears were starting to come from his eyes. You were close to cumming

“Oikawa-kun! Please. It’s enough"

You cried and begged him. It was what Oikawa wanted. You were crying with pleasure.

"So what? Are you crying?"

"Please. Please finish it now"

“You haven't cum yet. So shut the fuck up! I'm gonna fuck you whether you want it or not!”

You got another smack on the hip. It hurt more than the others.

Oikawa kept going in and out. Beads of sweat formed on her face and neck, she.

“Ahhh! Y/n-chan! I am coming!!"

She quickly changed positions. Now both of your legs were on his shoulders. He grabs your hips and lifts you a little higher, resting your back on the ice-cold tiles again.

“Oikawa-kun! Please lemme cum now" you said with tears in your eyes

“Cum bitch! But don't let those eyes look at me while it's emptying, I swear I'll make you regret it"

He pinched both cheeks between his palms, keeping you from moving your head. You nodded yes

Oikawa kept going in and out. Your moans filled the dressing room

You were both so close to cumming

“Y/n-chan. I'm gonna cum now! Let’s we cum together”

“Me too, Oikawa-kun!”

After a few hits in a row, Oikawa's cock completely covered your vaginal canal. The condom she put on prevented the semen she had emptied from filling into your uterus.

You were also discharged. Orgasm hit you like lightning. You screamed the moment you ejaculated as if showing your pleasure

You were out of breath. Your legs were tired from standing in the air for a long time. You lowered your aching legs. Oikawa slowly dropped you to the ground. He took the condom off his dick and cleaned himself and put his shorts back on.

When he looked back at you, you looked like you were cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself. Made you wear your own volleyball team jacket

"Are you ok?" asked

"I'm fine, I'm just cold. But I guess I can't walk"

“Does it hurt a lot?”

"A little"

“Oh, I think I got carried away. I'll help you get dressed, and then I'll drive you home."

“Oikawa-kun?”

“Yeah y/n-chan?”

"That was so fun."

“I had a lot of fun too. But now, as I promised, I will delete all those photos in front of your eyes.”

"No"

Oikawa was stunned by your sudden change of mind.

"No?" he said in shock

“Oikawa-kun. I want to be your slave forever"

Oikawa's face turned white

"I don't believe! You're not kidding, are you? Before you did that, you said you hated me at every opportunity.”

“I don't anymore. I realized how enjoyable it is to have sex with you. Make me your slave. I want to be yours forever. Fuck me forever"

Oikawa smiled at you and bent down to ruffle your hair. He placed a kiss on your nose

"You cute. I agree. Let's do this whenever we're available."

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The sleeping quarters in the municipal lodging house at the foot of 26th Street and the East River, November 27, 1931. These shelters provided clean and cheap accommodation for the indigent and homeless.

Photo: Associated Press

[yr-obedt-cicero]

btw how did people find out that Hamilton was from the west indies? or he never tried to keep this a secret?

because he definetly knew that people had opinions (read: xenophobia) about people that came from there, so I'd imagine that he'd try to keep this information to himself, but seeing how much Adams used this to swear him on the press, aparently people were quite aware of this

He couldn't have necessarily kept it a secret even if he wanted to, Hamilton still had relations with the West Indies even after moving to the colonies. His boyhood best friend, Edward Stevens, was also from the West Indies and many knew him to be close with Hamilton, or Ann Mitchell. Not to mention, Hamilton worked with others, like William Seton, on the matter of helping his father leave the Caribbean. And I'm sure others knew too like the Livingstons' Hamilton stayed with when he first arrived.

Also, in part, he seems to have just told people, likely when it arose in conversation. In a journal record from Henrietta Liston, dated the 6th of May, 1796, she writes about Hamilton visiting her; “We were visited by, & very frequently met another Man of Emenence in this Country Col: Hamilton; once Secretary of the Treasury, [...]—Col: Hamilton is by Birth a West-Indian; by Profession a Lawyer; & has retired from publick business to the practice of his Profession.” [x]

And in another journal extract, A. B. Thompson talks about Hamilton from what was written in Samuel Baldwin's ‘Diary of Events in Charleston, S.C., From March 20th to April 20th, 1780’;

Mr. Baldwin, after he left College, at the age of sixteen was appointed Usher in a school at Elizabethtown. Alexander Hamilton, then a lad from the West Indies, was among his pupils, and Mr. B. speaks of him as a remarkably sprightly boy, and thinks from his familiarity with the classics that he had received good instruction in the languages before he came to this country.

Source — Proceedings, by New Jersey Historical Society

In an account from Theodorick Bland - who spent two months at Morristown in the spring of 1777 - She writes about Washington's aides in a letter to her sister; “Col. Hamilton, a sensible, genteel, polite young fellow, a West Indian” [x] So, I doubt he was being secretive about it, and it wasn't like one day something leaked and everyone found out.

While on the subject, I think there is room for a conversation about the people who misunderstand Hamilton's shame of being illegitimate, to his heritage on the island. Because they are two different subjects, while both were a burden on his name for quite some time, it doesn't mean he lumped them together, and neither should people when revisiting history. He did know about the prejudice against West Indians, as it was commonplace in the Colonies especially in the North (I talk about this more here and here). But he wasn't really concealing it at all. While he sure as Hell wasn't waving it around with pride per se, it wasn't necessarily a hush-hush topic. And while some can speculate that perhaps Hamilton wasn't as shameful in the beginning until he started getting bashed in the press, considering the dates of the previously mentioned records are primarily around the war. He still says it frankly in later years too, even after getting insulted for his illegitimacy;

My father now dead was certainly of a respectable Scotch Family. His father was, and the son of his Eldest brother now is Laird of Grange. His mother was the sister of an ancient Baronet Sir Robert Pollock. Himself being a younger son of a numerous family was bred to trade. In capacity of merchant he went to St Kitts, where from too generous and too easy a temper he failed in business, and at length fell into indigent circumstances. For some time he was supported by his friends in Scotland, and for several years before his death by me. It was his fault to have had too much pride and two large a portion of indolence—but his character was otherwise without reproach and his manners those of a Gentleman. [...] A Dane a fortune-hunter of the name of Lavine came to Nevis bedizzened with gold, and paid his addresses to my mother then a handsome young woman having a snug fortune. In compliance with the wishes of her mother who was captivated by the glitter of the [___] but against her own inclination she married Lavine. The marriage was unhappy and ended in a separation by divorce. My mother afterwards went to St Kitts, became acquainted with my father and a marriage between them ensued, followed by many years cohabitation and several children. But unluckily it turned out that the divorce was not absolute but qualified, and thence the second marriage was not lawful. Hence when my mother died the small property which she left went to my half brother Mr Lavine who lived in South Carolina and was for a time partner with Mr Kane. He is now dead.

Source — Alexander Hamilton to William Jackson, [August 26, 1800]

And judging by this letter, it becomes apparent that Hamilton was more ashamed regarding his bastard title, rather than his Creole one. It's been speculated that the myth of ‘Rachel and James getting married but legal complications didn't consider it official’ was something Hamilton may have been told by his parents. Whether he later found out it was false or not, he continued to use it anyway. The point is, he would rather lie about his illegitimacy than his heritage (Also probably because he couldn't lie about it at that point).

The characterization of aversion to these topics from Hamilton usually stems from this false letter, and in John C.'s biography where he says he, “rarely as he alluded to his personal history,” [x] but goes on to talk about his father's time at a Jewish school and his birth. This is again why I think Hamilton was moreso reserved about his illegitimacy or childhood since this uncomfortable stray from the topic is usually always directly related to his parent's marriage rather than the Carribean itself. Especially since he seems comfortable joking about his Creole title with his family;

Give my love to Angelica & assure [her] that I did not leave her pye out of resentment for her having changed its original destination; but because it was impossible to take it with us without abandonning a basket of Crabs which was sent to my care for Mrs. Rensselaer. It has always been my creed that a lady’s pleasure is of more importance than a Gentleman’s, so the pye gave way to the Crabs. It was a nice question, but after mature reflection I decided in favour of the latter. Perhaps as a Creole I had some sympathy with them.

Source — Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, [1801]

He even did this with friends, holding himself apart from Americans in a letter to Rufus King;

To see the character of the Government and the country so sported with, exposed to so indelible a blot puts my heart to the Torture. Am I then more of an American than those who drew their first breath on American Ground? Or What is it that thus torments me at a circumstance so calmly viewed by almost every body else? Am I a fool—a Romantic quixot—Or is there a constitutional defect in the American Mind? Were it not for yourself and a few others, I could adopt the reveries of De Paux as substantial truths, and would say with him that there is something in our climate which belittles every Animal human or brute.

Source — Alexander Hamilton to Rufus King, [21 February 1795]

Overall, it wasn't a secret and the impression you get from mentions of his heritage by others is that he seems to have spoken about it often. But I do think Hamilton was more reserved about his illegitimacy rather than being born an islander. Not that he was extremely proud about either. Hope this helps!

[mymovingfingerwrites]

A Father at His Son’s Baptism

Cutlet carved from our larger carcasses: thus were you made — from a spit and a hug. The scratchy stuff you’re lying on is wool. You recognize the pressure of your mother’s hand. That white moon with a bluish cast is a priest’s face, frowning over a water bowl. Whatever befalls you now, you’ve been blessed, in a most picturesque and ineffective ceremony dating from the Middle Ages. Outdoors, the church lawn radiates a lethal green. A gas truck thunders down the street. Why, at emotional moments, do the placid trees and landscape look overexposed, almost ready to bleach away, and reveal the workings of “the Real” machine underneath? All bundled up on such a hot day: whose whelp, pray tell, or mutton chop are you? — tail-less, your cloudy gaze a vague accusation, not of the sins of my history, but ignorance to come, future cruelty. You’re getting red in the face, blotchy, ready to wail. Good. From now on protest and remember everything. Your cries assail even the indigent dead, buried in charity plots right outside, slowly releasing their heat, while you, born out of the blue into a wheezing spring, watch a chaotic mosaic assemble itself. You tune up. My love for you is half-adrenaline, half gibberish. More Latin and the priest splatters you. He’s got one good eye, and a black patch, like a pirate. Now, smiling as if he knows something I don’t, he hands you to me. If I drop you, loudmouth, will you bounce or fly? You were chalky and bloody at first, in the doctor’s grip, looking skinned and inside-out. Boyhood, a dangling carrot. I stare at you and experience the embarrassment of riches. I need to loosen my tie or I’ll faint. Outside a rake scrapes, sprinklers hiss. It might be best to set you down in one of these squares of light on the floor, striped by venetian blinds, and leave you safe in that bright cage. I could go have coffee, and come back when we can carry on a conversation. Men and women are afraid of each other. It’s true. Whisper and drool of my flesh, I’m terrified of you.

— Amy Gerstler, from Bitter Angel, Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1990